


The Rockstar Survival Guide

by reeology



Category: Original Work
Genre: Band Fic, M/M, Music Tour, Musicians, Original Slash, Rockstars, Romance, Slash, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 22:06:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 101,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2126274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reeology/pseuds/reeology
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he was going to be very honest with himself, Eric Forster would have admitted that he had no clue what he was doing with his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2008.
> 
> If for some ungodly name you want to follow me on tumblr after reading this, my username is reeology.

If he was going to be very honest with himself, Eric Forster would have admitted that he had no clue what he was doing with his life. He was operating on a rather vague plan involving the usual teenage ideals – rebelling against his parents, finding a kick-ass job, and making lots of money. As it was, he was only accomplishing two of the three; he’d somehow finagled his way into a roadie position, and while hanging out with rock gods all day was deliriously kick-ass and rebellious, the pay wasn’t exactly stunning. Lugging Fender Twin Reverbs and distortion pedals around all day wasn’t quite as glamorous as he’d pictured, but he managed to suffer through it with, if not a smile, then at least devastatingly stylish blond hair.

That was until the manager assigned him a position as guitar tech and he actually met the lead guitarist, Wyatt Edwards.

Wyatt, also the lead singer and sometimes pianist, was tall, broad-shouldered, and round-faced. Every day, he wore boxy black glasses that were partially covered by his shockingly orange bangs, and his stubble somehow miraculously appeared the same length every morning without fail. It was almost as though he trimmed it on a daily basis to maintain the same visage of unkempt manliness. Secretly, Eric might have been jealous because he couldn’t grow very much facial hair, let alone spring a beard after a few days of not shaving, but he planned on carrying that particular secret with him to the grave. It wasn’t so much the fact that Wyatt had such a strong following even without the classic rock star looks that bothered Eric, because, in Eric’s opinion, he looked more like a homeless man than a musician. Rather, it was the man’s attitude that sometimes made Eric want to commit justifiable homicide.

“Eric,” the man in question interrupted Eric’s thoughts with an amused look sparking in his hazel eyes. He’d somehow managed to enter the room without Eric noticing, and was now standing a mere foot away, decked out in a ratty old band shirt and light-washed jeans with holes in the knees, grinning like a moron. “Welcome back to earth. You seemed to be fantasizing pretty hard back there. Anything about me?”

Jumping in surprise, a hot flush spread across Eric’s face as his heart pulsed and his blood rushed in his ears. It took a minute for the words to catch up with his brain, and when they did, the blush made absolute sense and he suddenly wanted to stick his head in an oven. Or stick in Wyatt’s head instead.

“ _No_ ,” he said, scarcely able to believe Wyatt had actually just said those words. Surely this qualified as sexual harassment somewhere?

“Too bad,” Wyatt said. He leaned in so close that Eric could smell his cologne, and for a terrifying moment Eric thought Wyatt was _really_ going to sexually harass him, but instead Wyatt simply squinted at the guitar and rubbed at the stubble on his jaw. “Is that gonna be ready any time soon?” he asked.

“It’s ready right now,” he said, thrusting it into Wyatt’s hands, partially to prevent said hands from doing anything inscrutable.

“Thanks,” Wyatt replied with a hint of laughter in his deep voice, and Eric began to scowl. He didn’t see what was funny about surprising him so badly he’d nearly jumped, or about sexual harassment. Not bothering to reply, Eric slipped out of the rehearsal room, which had been empty save for the two of them, and retreated to the equipment room, where he instantly began making a ruckus with the tambourine under the guise of testing it. They didn’t exactly have a tambourine tech, so he decided it was perfectly acceptable for him to tune it, or whatever the hell you did with a tambourine.

“You seem pleasant,” a slick voice commented from the doorway after a few moments, and Eric dropped the tambourine and yelped. Movement registered in the corner of his eye, and when he turned to look, another member of the band was stepping into the room, looking bemused. It was the bass player, James, who was shorter and slimmer than Wyatt, with shiny, soft-looking brown hair that fell across his forehead in a straight slant, partially obscuring his bright green eyes. He had his hands in the pockets of his blue skinny jeans, leaning against the door frame with his hip as he looked at Eric.

“Ha, ha,” Eric replied darkly, bending over to pick up the tambourine. Now he actually had to test it to make sure the fall hadn’t damaged it, and he shook it and hit it gently against his palm. It sounded okay, he thought.

“Problems with Wyatt again?” asked James knowingly.

He shook the tambourine a little more forcefully. “Yes.”

“I see.” Pushing off from against the wall, James closed the distance between them and removed the tambourine from Eric’s suddenly vice-like grip with gentle hands. “What happened this time?”

“He…” Eric trailed off, furrowing his eyebrows. “He snuck up on me, I guess. And said some weird stuff and gave me a heart attack.”

“A heart attack,” James repeated dryly, dark eyebrows raised.

“It’s an exaggeration, okay?” he snapped, snatching the tambourine back, and smacked it forcefully against his palm one last time before he hung it in its proper place on the wall. “It scared me, and he was all smug and amused about it and asked for his guitar.”

James nodded. “I can see why that would piss you off.”

Narrowing his eyes, Eric put his hands on his slender hips and asked, “Are you being sarcastic? Because that would be a really bad idea right now.”

“Never,” replied James, covering the curl of a smile behind one of his slender, pale hands. “I know you’re not my tech, but could you prep my bass for me anyway? We’re about to start practice.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he grumbled, shuffling off in the direction of the band’s rack of seemingly never-ending guitars. And bass guitars. And ukuleles. And the other tiny thing Wyatt played – the mandolin, or whatever. They had way too many instruments to keep track of.

Eric didn’t really want to prep James’s instrument, and he rather disliked being everyone’s tech-for-hire until the other roadies arrived, and so he grabbed James’s sunburst-colored bass with more force than strictly necessary and huffed as he grabbed the tuner from a pile of equipment and set it to the appropriate pitch. “I can’t wait until the tour begins,” he told the bass irritably, twisting the tuning peg extra hard. The sooner there were more music techs around to share the burden, the better.

 

* * *

 

As usual, the day ended with Eric calling his twin to complain. Eric had only been working with the band for just over a month, and the daily ritual of calling Andrew had begun almost immediately following Eric’s introduction to Wyatt. At first it had only been a few little things, subtle comments that Eric couldn’t decipher, and then the teasing had started and Eric had finally had enough.

Today was no different. He holed himself up in the instrument room, long since abandoned after practice had ended. He’d just finished packing up all of the instruments and was now pacing the room, cell phone clutched in his hand with his brother on the other line.

“I can’t take this anymore,” he ranted, holding his cell with one hand while he gestured furiously with the other. “I am tired of these asshat musicians. They have no respect. I’m going to murder them in their sleep.” A pause. “Viciously. With a machete.” He’d given this a lot of thought.

“You don’t really mean that,” Andrew said in a gentle tone. “You’re just angry right now, so don’t make any rash decisions—”

“I’ll make rash decisions if I want to,” Eric snapped.

“You’ll regret them later,” Andrew warned.

“I’m going to quit,” Eric said dramatically. “Or – or break Wyatt’s guitar.”

“Ah, Wyatt,” Andrew sighed, well-acquainted with this particular topic of bitching. “I’m sorry for whatever he did this time.”

“I swear to God,” Eric said, holding his phone tightly against his ear, and his voice cracked underneath the force of his irritation. Embarrassed, he scrubbed at his face and muttered, “I swear to God, Drew. I’m going insane.”

“You’ll be fine,” Andrew said soothingly. Eric could hear him shuffling around in the background, shuffling through sheets of paper on what Eric imagined was his desk. “Look, do you want me to come visit you or something?”

Sighing, Eric pressed his fingers to his temple and focused very hard on not freaking out. “No. Then they’ll know you went to my interview for me.”

“I still don’t think I should have done that.” Eric could practically hear the frown in his twin’s voice. “I mean. How are you feeling, anyway? That equipment’s a bit heavy, and you’re not exactly as, ah...”

Eric could tell he was trying to find a polite way to call him a stick with absolutely zero muscle mass, or something to that effect, which he sadly was, especially when compared to his athletic twin. “I know,” he muttered, somewhat bitterly. “I’m kind of sore.”

Andrew hesitated. “Are you sure you don’t want to come home?”

“Yeah.” Eric tightened his grip on the phone. “Yeah, I’m sure. This is what I want to do.”

“That’s good,” Andrew said, and Eric pictured him smiling – the same big, goofy grin he always gave Eric when he was genuinely happy. “Come visit me sometime. I miss you.”

“Sure,” Eric agreed, although he had no idea when he’d have the time or money to buy a plane ticket to Andrew’s east coast university, and then a sudden clatter from the next room over told him it was time to get off the phone. “Listen, I think Wyatt’s coming, so I’ve gotta go.” He didn’t actually know it was Wyatt, but the footsteps were heavy and frantic, so he knew it definitely wasn’t James. James was too well put together to be staggering around like that, so Wyatt was his next logical guess.

“All right,” he sighed, and Eric could tell he was biting his lip. “I’ll talk to you later, then. Try to call Mom and Dad once in a while, okay? They’re worried about you.”

“Yeah, right,” Eric snorted, and then softened almost immediately as he said, “Bye, Drew.”

“Bye,” Andrew replied, and Eric hurriedly snapped his cell phone shut just as Wyatt stumbled noisily and desperately into the room.

“What’s wrong with you?” Eric asked, spinning to face the musician, and arched one perfectly-shaped blond eyebrow inquisitively.

“Label rep,” Wyatt responded, trying to squeeze himself behind the gigantic subwoofer  speaker wedged into the corner of the room. “We’re supposed to have new songs today, and—” he trailed off abruptly as he seemed to realize exactly to whom he was speaking. “Wait, what’re you still doing here?”

“Um.” Eric’s heart pounded a little, although he wasn’t sure why – he wasn’t doing anything wrong. “My job?”

Wyatt stared. “There’s nothing left for you to do today.”

Scuffing the soles of his shoes against the floor, Eric cast a look around the room and debated telling him he’d been taking a private phone call on the job, even though technically his day was already over. He decided to lie. “I’m prepping for tomorrow?”

Wyatt narrowed his eyes. “You don’t even know what we’re doing tomorrow.”

“I can guess,” he snapped.

Finally succeeding in cramming himself between the subwoofer and the wall, Wyatt shook his bangs out of his face and peered at Eric accusingly over the top of the equipment. “It’d be more work if you were wrong, and I think you’re too lazy for that—”

“Wyatt,” James’s calm voice interrupted, and both Wyatt and Eric started in surprise. They hadn’t even heard him open the door.

Wyatt shrank behind the subwoofer. “Wyatt’s not here,” he called in a significantly deeper, ridiculous voice.

Folding his arms across his chest, James drummed his fingers on his bicep and said, “Don’t even try. I know it’s you, and you know why I’m here.”

Wyatt poked his head up over the top of the equipment and cringed. “Not really?”           

“We’re going on tour next week,” James told him softly. Somehow, talking down to Wyatt in that eerily placid voice was scarier than any yelling might have been. “We’ve been expecting this meeting for months, and you’re acting like a child.”

Slowly, Wyatt began easing himself out from behind the subwoofer, looking both defensive yet properly chastised. “I’m not acting like a _child_. I just hate that rep. He’s creepy.”

“Uh.” Eric looked between them, stuck in the room while James was guarding the door. “Look, this really doesn’t concern me, so do you mind if I leave?”

“Oh.” Moving aside so as not to block the door, James graced him with a kind smile and said, “Certainly.”

“I thought you were prepping for tomorrow,” Wyatt said, looking betrayed, almost pleading, as though he were begging Eric not to leave him there alone with James in scary lecture mode.

Yeah, right. Like Eric was staying behind for that. “All finished,” he lied, fleeing eagerly from the room, and ignored the pathetic strains of Wyatt’s feeble arguments as James effectively bitched him out as softly and tranquilly as possible.

Quietly, he made a mental note to never, ever piss James off.

 

* * *

 

Roadies, as the name implied, were primarily needed on the _road_ , so it was very unique that Eric was working with the band before the tour began. As it just so happened, Eric was a great actor, or at least a good fake crier, and he had spent no more than one week spending each day appealing to the manager’s softer side. London Hawkes was a difficult man to persuade, but Eric had managed it by complaining about making rent and his parents’ poor financial status, and by pointing out what a great opportunity it would be to get used to the instruments. The Forster family was actually quite infamous among the socialites, and their overbearing tradition for million dollar parties and general stuffy demeanor had been the main reason Eric had fled from them.

However, Eric’s troubles weren’t entirely fabricated. While it was true that the Forsters were quite wealthy, that was exactly the stifling environment from which Eric had fled, and he was stuck with a dilapidated apartment and bills he couldn’t pay. After Eric had told a story about having to steal toilet paper from public restrooms in order to afford his water bill, London had finally caved, Eric had been as surprised as the rest of the crew. After all, Eric wore a brand name polo every day, clothes taken from his former life, so he really hadn’t expected London to budge an inch on the subject of his early employment, but he certainly wasn’t going to complain.

Two days before tour found Eric doing just that, crammed into the tiny room London attempted to pass off as an office in the band’s temporary practice space, draped across a chair.

“He’s purposely provoking me,” Eric declared with a sour expression, twisting so that his legs were propped against London’s sort-of-desk, which actually consisted of a chair and a small fold-out table that was completely covered in complex-looking schedules. At London’s disbelieving look, he narrowed his eyes into a glare and continued, “I’m serious. He pretends to be nice, but sometimes I feel like he’s hitting on me, and it’s totally uncomfortable.”

London, who had long ago given up on his timetables, sighed as he rubbed his hands slowly over his face. “Eric,” he said in a tired voice, “I promise you, Wyatt isn’t trying to seduce you or piss you off. He has better things to do.”

“Oh, yeah?” Eric leaned forward in his chair. “Like what? Because he certainly seems to spend a lot of his time around me.”

“That’s because you’re in charge of his instruments,” groaned London exasperatedly. He had dark circles beneath his eyes, which usually gleamed stormy gray, and his light brown hair was mussed almost beyond compare, sticking up in little arcs around his ears. Preparing for the tour must have really been taking its toll. London was only in his late twenties, but these days the stress of managing a band made him look at least thirty.“Is this honestly what you came in here to talk to me about? Because I’m a little too busy for this at the moment.”

“Yes, it’s what I came in here to talk to you about.” Eric nearly pouted. Couldn’t London see that he was seriously upset?

“Look,” London murmured and focused his gray eyes on the roadie with what seemed like some difficulty. “If you can give me a real example, I will take it into consideration and talk to Wyatt about it.”

“Fine,” Eric replied with a sulky look. He couldn’t think of any examples right now, but he knew there were plenty, and London had better fucking believe Eric would be in here the next chance he had. Just as he was pushing himself out of his seat, Wyatt poked his head into the room.

“There you are,” he greeted Eric with a wide grin. “I was just looking for you. Are you ready for me yet?”

Eric’s heart jumped and his mouth dropped open. “Excuse me?”

Wyatt’s eyes crinkled. “You’re excused. Are you ready to give me my guitar yet?”

“No,” Eric said, staring, and wondered if London was catching onto Wyatt’s inappropriateness. “I’m going to do it now.”

“Awesome,” Wyatt replied as he flashed the other man a thumbs up, his eyes crinkling with the strength of his smile, and tacked on, “I’ll see you in a couple minutes, then,” before he popped back outside, presumably to wait in the practice room.

“ _See_?” Eric yelled, almost hysterically, as he whirled around to face London. “That right there is a real example. He asked if I was _ready_ for him.”

Frowning, London took a moment to look at Eric very seriously. He seemed to be mulling the situation over in his head, which pleased Eric immensely until London said, slowly and calmly, “Get out of my office, please. This is so ridiculous that I don’t even know what to say. Wyatt’s being perfectly civil with you.”

Eric’s jaw dropped a little at that. He sputtered for a few moments, too offended to come up with a proper insult. Eventually, he came up with, “It’s not even a real office,” as he rose from his chair, and he slammed the door on his way out.

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, London was right – Wyatt really hadn’t been intentionally aggravating him. Eric would have known this if he’d experienced any actual provocations from the singer, which, to his extreme misfortune, he eventually did. Because Eric had seen Wyatt getting his ass handed to him by his own bassist, Wyatt found it appropriate to humiliate Eric at the next available opportunity. Regrettably, this opportunity happened to fall on the opening night of their tour.

Wyatt was standing in front of a microphone, untwisting the cap of a water bottle to take a generous drink between songs while Eric rushed out to switch a guitar. He’d just finished setting it on its stand when Wyatt caught him by his shirtsleeve and dragged him into the spotlight with an exaggeratedly benevolent grin.

“Hey, everyone,” Wyatt said into the microphone in an uncharacteristically energetic tone. “I’d like to introduce you to somebody.”

The crowd cheered appropriately, and Eric’s heart stopped a little, then restarted three times as fast and tried to climb into his throat. Meanwhile, his knees locked, all his muscles tightened, and he began to sweat underneath the hot, bright lights in the venue. He attempted to slink away as discreetly as possible, but Wyatt’s grip on his shirt held fast.

“This,” he said, jerking him closer, “is Eric, one of our roadies. Say hello, Eric!”

Eric tried to wave, but his arm felt like stone and refused to move. He expected Wyatt to let him go, but no, Wyatt just squeezed him and held the mic up to his face. “Hello,” he managed to say, voice quaking.

“See, Eric? There’s no need to be shy.” Eric could feel Wyatt’s fingers digging into his bicep now. “They already love you.”

“Uh huh,” Eric said, the words half-stuck in his throat. He wanted to get the hell out of here as quickly as possible, before anybody started snapping photos or anything embarrassing like that.

“Eric,” Wyatt continued, “contrary to his looks, is actually one of our better roadies. Can we get a little recognition for him?”

 _I’ve already had enough recognition_ , Eric thought wildly as he attempted to tug his arm away. The crowd apparently liked that, though, because they started up with the noise again, and he even caught a girl yelling at him not to be shy. Good Christ, were they all insane?He already felt like the girls in the front row were looking at him like they wanted to know everything about him from his blood type to his underwear brand of choice. Eric knew he was too scrawny and angular to be considered classically attractive, but that didn’t seem to matter when he was standing next to the lead singer.

Wyatt apparently thought that had been enough embarrassment for one night, because he released Eric with a smile and said, “Thanks, Eric! We’ll see you backstage.”

“Yeah,” Eric muttered, and concentrated very hard on not sprinting to the safety of the curtains.

 

* * *

 

Eric spent the rest of the show skirting around the edge of the curtain and refusing to go back on stage. It took nearly the entire time for his heartbeat to return to normal and for his voice to come out without shaking. The moment the show was over, Eric sought out Wyatt like a heat-seeking missile.

“That was the dirtiest trick I’ve ever seen,” Eric hissed, jabbing Wyatt in the chest.

“What are you talking about?” Wyatt asked with a genuinely confused expression.

“Oh, you know what I’m talking about, you bastard,” Eric growled.

“Eric,” James admonished him as he walked beside Eric, swiping his sweaty bangs out of his pale, freckled face. “Is this really necessary?”

“Yes,” he replied without hesitation. Normally, James made him feel like he was being chided by a parent, but he was too angry to care. That much overwhelming attention had brought out anxieties he hadn’t even known he’d had, and how _dare_ Wyatt keep him pinned there to exploit that?

James raised his eyebrows and just kept looking at him until Eric finally gritted his teeth and turned to Wyatt.

“I’m sorry for calling you a bastard, but I still think you’re a douchebag, and I refuse to be civil with you unless my job is on the line. Now please move your arrogant butt out of my way so that I may haul your gear to the truck,” he spat out as politely as he could before he spun on his heel to grab an amp, the chord already wound tightly, and began hauling it outside.

…whereupon he was immediately mauled by a horde of fans.

Okay, maybe ‘mauled’ was a little too dramatic. The crowd thrumming around the back door was incredibly intimidating, though, and Eric hadn’t really been expecting it. Casting a glance behind him, he caught a glimpse of the band standing around drinking out of their water bottles, and turned back to the fans with a somewhat fearful expression.

“Is the band coming out?” an overly-enthusiastic girl with birds painted on her face asked, her arms outstretched as she peeked over the shoulders of a security guard.

“Um, I don’t know,” Eric said, taking two large steps away from her.

Responding to her question was the stupidest thing he possibly could have done, because the second his answer was out of his mouth, every face in the throng was turned towards him, and he was suddenly the object of a thousand questions.

To his credit, he did a pretty good job of trying to avoid the rest of them, but there was one that he just couldn’t ignore:

“Are you involved with Wyatt?”

“What?” he squawked, caught completely off guard, and froze while he fumbled for an intelligent response. “No,” he said eventually, like it should have been obvious, and stomped up the ramp leading to the truck and set down the amp.

His hesitation seemed to have caught the crowd’s attention, however, and there was suddenly a buzz of conversation and recognition of Eric as the roadie Wyatt had pulled up front. Without any further warning, a decent chunk of fans began questioning him as soon jumped off the back of the truck.

“Are you with someone else in the band?”

“Hell no,” Eric hissed. From the corner of his eye, he could see the rest of the band sneaking onto the tour bus while Eric suffered the brunt of their fans’ attention, and he mentally cursed them and their entire families.

He kept sniping down their questions as he went, and by the time he made it backstage again, he was ready to kill someone.

“Get out of my way,” he snapped at Mitch, another roadie, and irately grabbed the closest piece of equipment. He wielded it like a war flag upon his return outside, casting biting looks at anyone who even attempted to speak to him.

That tactic, of course, was useless.

“Are you single?”

“No,” he lied, and then quickly realized that had been the wrong thing to say. “But I’m not dating anyone here!” he amended in an attempt to save his livelihood.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

He pretended not to hear that one and busied himself pretending to find a safe spot for the random mic stand he’d grabbed. Unfortunately, they took his silence to mean _no_ , and they resumed grilling him once he resurfaced.

“Do you have a _boy_ friend?” someone asked, and he barely resisted the urge to crawl back into the truck and not come out. Ducking his head, he shook his blond hair into his face to cover his disconcerted flush and refused to comment.

“Mitch!” he said, spotting his salvation. He jogged over, hailing him with a frantic wave, and practically clung to the other man’s arm when he was close enough. “Save me,” he whispered.

The physical contact didn’t go unnoticed, though, and someone from the mass of fans piped up with, “I thought you weren’t involved with anyone here!”

“They’re like harpies,” Eric muttered, whirling around. He narrowed his eyes at the nearest onlooker and spat out, “There’s no way in hell I’m dating this guy! I’d rather date—” He broke off suddenly, eyes widening as he realized that he’d actually being about to say ‘something like Wyatt,’ but that was probably just giving them more ammunition. Given their noisy chatter, they’d probably figured out what he’d been about to say, and Eric could practically feel the crushing weight of their stares. He hadn’t been the object of so much attention since piano recitals as a kid, and that was nothing compared to this. Snapping his mouth shut, he turned away again and clutched his shirt, right over his heart, and focused on breathing.

“You okay?” Mitch asked with a concerned look.

“No,” Eric said, on the verge of hyperventilation. At this point, the job almost wasn't worth it anymore. Sure, he loved music and wanted to be involved in it some way, but this was ridiculous. Between Wyatt, and – well, mostly just Wyatt, since this whole thing was his fault – he was on the verge of quitting, but this was his only source of income and he couldn’t go crawling back to his parents just yet. This was about independence and all that American dream crap, and he refused to give up. Shoulders slumping, he turned desperate eyes to Mitch and pleaded, “Look, can you just…?”

“Yeah,” Mitch murmured, as though reading his mind, and adjusted the gigantic speaker he was carrying. “We’ll take care of it. You go hide somewhere.”

 _Yeah, hide somewhere_ , Eric thought sarcastically, and mumbled a mostly sincere apology before he fled in the direction of the staff bus. Wyatt was going to fucking burn for this. Of that much he was sure. 


	2. Chapter 2

Eric didn’t exactly cut an intimidating figure; he was too short, too skinny, and too delicate to be threatening. But that didn’t stop him from storming the band’s sleeper bus like it was the Bastille. He threw open the door, heaving in frustration and anger and hell if he could be bothered to think of the word, but it was bad, and it involved slitting Wyatt’s throat in the middle of the night.

The lounge was being taken up by the extravagantly stretched out form of the drummer, whose name was Cyrus but whom Eric had unofficially dubbed Fatty. In reality, it was quite an inadequate nickname, as Cyrus was tall and slim with a wide, white smile and dark, curly hair. He was actually rather handsome, although Eric would die before admitting that to another living soul. That was probably actually why Eric had instigated the nickname – Cyrus was just so nice and good-looking, there just _had_ to be something wrong with him. Eric took it upon himself to decide it was an invisible weight problem.

Fatty looked up at the sound of the bus door being thrown open, a magazine open on his lap and a broad smile on his face, but it died at the sight of Eric. He glanced toward the bunk section of the bus and said, “Wyatt’s in there. Go ahead, he deserves it.” Then he held the magazine up over his eyes, sinking against the cream-colored cushions, and pointedly didn’t look up again.

Eric would have thanked him, but that would have given away his presence, so he crept toward the bunks in a silent rage, his hands balled into fists at his sides. Standing over his bunk, Wyatt was struggling with a shirt that was stuck partially on his head, the neckhole caught on his glasses with his red hair sticking out the top, the hem pulled only just below his navel. The sweat-stained shirt from the show was at his feet, and Wyatt kicked it underneath the bunk as he finally pulled the shirt down all the way and turned around.

“Oh, hey, Eric,” he said, looking surprised yet pleased. “What are you doing here?”

“I came here for you,” he he said. A grin began curling Wyatt’s lips, and Eric felt a growl building in his throat. He swiftly crossed over and grabbed Wyatt by the collar, tilting his head up to meet Wyatt’s impressive height as he attempted to make it perfectly clear that he wasn’t here for anything pleasant.

Wyatt’s grin kept growing. “You’ve got my collar pretty tightly there, sailor.”

“That’s because I’m going to kill you,” Eric hissed.

Wyatt’s eyes widened, more white than hazel, and he swallowed. “Come on,” he said, forcing a laugh, and lifted his hands to pry Eric’s away from his neck. “It wasn’t that bad. You just need to loosen up a little.”

“It wasn’t that bad?” Eric laughed humorlessly. “That was nothing.” He hauled Wyatt to one of the tiny bus windows and shoved his face up against the glass. “But take a look at this!”

“Um,” Wyatt said, glasses crooked and cheek smooshed. “I can’t see anything with you holding me like this.”

Growling, Eric jerked Wyatt back just enough for him to look outside, where there was still a claustrophobia-inducing mass of fans clustering around the backstage door, most of them with cameras and a few of them recording the event on their phones. “Look.”

Wyatt was silent for a moment before he reached up to correct his glasses and chewed on his lip thoughtfully. “So?”

“ _So_ ,” Eric pressed, “they’re crazy and have this sudden, insane need to know everything about me and I hate it.”

“Eric,” Wyatt laughed, high-pitched and nervous, and twisted clumsily out of his grasp. “I hate to break it to you, but that’s kind of normal. You should just ignore them.”

Eric was about a half a second from clawing Wyatt’s face off. “Maybe that works for you, but I can’t handle it. I was obscure before, and I liked that.” He grabbed Wyatt by the shoulders and shook him violently. “I want my anonymity back!”

Casting a glance out the window, Wyatt merely licked his lips and pointed out, “These windows aren’t tinted, you know. You’re not exactly helping the situation.”

Eric’s jaw dropped. “So, they can see us? As in,” he shook Wyatt a little more, “me with my hands on you?”

Wyatt nodded.

“Oh, fuck.” Eric released Wyatt as fast as he could, backpedaling until his calves bumped into Wyatt’s bunk. “So I just…”

Another nod. “Made things ten times worse.”

“Jesus Christ.” He tugged at his hair in frustration and looked about wildly for James. James would know how to calmly and effectively bitch Wyatt out and fix everything. They needed him right now.

But James wasn’t there.

So Eric freaked out.

“Fuck this job,” he said shakily, stumbling out of the bunk area, past the lounge to the front of the bus, and flung open the door. “Fuck this stupid job. I quit,” he added loudly, wobbling unsteadily down the step and onto the pavement.

“Eric,” Wyatt called after him, pausing in the doorway with his hand on the frame and worry in his eyes. “You can’t just quit. We’re in Portland. How would you even get back?”

“I don’t care,” he yelled over his shoulder as he stomped adamantly away from the crowd of people outside the venue. “I’m going to stay in a hotel and call a cab and go home. You can just mail me my paycheck.”

Wyatt pursed his lips and yelled, “But we don’t know where you live!”

Tossing his hands in the air, Eric made a strangled noise that was not quite a scream and not quite a sob. “London does,” he managed to say.

For a moment, it seemed like perhaps Wyatt would finally learn to keep his mouth shut, but then he raised his eyebrows and asked, “So, can I have your number then?”

Eric was so shocked that he couldn’t even answer at first. He could feel the rage building again, and his knees lost feeling, so he squatted on the pavement. “No,” he said, and covered his face with his hands. “I hate you,” he added.

Wyatt gave him a guilty look but did not step off the bus, which was probably in his best interest as the crowd had nearly doubled at the remarkable scene; everyone was interested now. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? But you can’t quit. This will all blow over in a couple weeks and you can go back to being mysterious or anonymous or whatever you want to be, and I can have a person with at least some semblance of musical knowledge tuning my guitars.”

Eric lifted his head and glared. “Last week I tuned James’s bass to the wrong pitch.”

Wincing, Wyatt took a step off the bus and said, “Okay, so that was stupid—” Eric’s expression doubled in intensity, and Wyatt hastily backed up a stride. “—I mean, understandable. But you’re trained for the guitar, not bass, and it’s not like we can just hire another music tech with your training in the middle of the tour.”

Eric frowned in concentration and furrowed his well-shaped eyebrows before saying, “I want a raise.”

Wyatt sputtered, “What? No! You can’t have a raise!”

Sitting up straighter, Eric folded his arms and steadfastly looked Wyatt in the eyes. “I want a raise, or I am quitting, and that’s that.”

“I’m not in charge of that!” Wyatt said desperately.

“Fine.” Eric slowly drew himself onto his feet and dusted off his pants and polo shirt. “I’ll talk to the manager, then, and if he doesn’t increase my wages, then I’ll leave.” He narrowed his eyes. “And if you don’t talk to him about it first, then it will be your fault.”

“I…” Wyatt’s mouth worked soundlessly for a few moments, and if Eric had to give his expression a name, it would have been flabbergasted. Finally, Wyatt’s jaw clicked shut, and he glared at him for a few moments before conceding, “Okay, fine. I’ll talk to London. Now will you please go load the truck?”

Smirking, Eric finished dusting himself off and said, “No. I’m not doing anything until I get my raise.” And then he flipped the guitarist off and walked off to the staff bus.

It wasn’t until later that he realized the entirety of the fight had been captured on camera, and that it was all uploaded onto YouTube within hours. And that was when the real nightmare began.

 

* * *

 

London did not look amused as he surveyed the group in front of him. They were all gathered in the lounge of the bus –  the band plus Eric were seated on the cream-colored couch as London stood. The bus rattled onward to the next destination,  making everyone occasionally sway or wobble with the natural rhythm of the bus’s motion. James looked like he always did, quietly amused, while Fatty simply appeared bored. Eric and Wyatt, however, had twin expressions that were equal parts terror, anger, and apprehension.

London, to put it simply, was pissed.

“Who,” London said coolly, a look of icy grey frost in his eyes, “had the bright idea to have a cat fight in front of the cameras? This is a PR nightmare.”

Eric and Wyatt simultaneously pointed to each other, which didn’t exactly help. London kept glaring.

“Mr. Hawkes,” Eric appealed to him, leaning forward in his chair – he wasn’t quite used to calling him London yet. “Let me assure you that I would never want this kind of crazy attention from anyone.” He paused for effect. “Ever.”

Momentarily closing his eyes, London pinched the bridge of his nose and murmured, “The way you acted, I’m not entirely sure I can believe that.”

“The way I acted?” Eric repeated, appalled. “I just — he was — I didn’t even do anything!”

“Except accost me on the bus,” Wyatt cut in most unhelpfully.

“You!” Balling his fists in anger, the Eric sent him the most cutting, contemptuous glower he could muster at the moment and willed himself not to stretch across the couch and punch Wyatt  in the nose. “Shut up. I didn’t accost you – I was trying to protect my dignity.”

“Protect your dignity,” Wyatt snorted, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, right. You pushed me up against the wall and—”

“Wyatt had it coming,” Fatty interjected, and Eric tilted his chin victoriously.

“Gentlemen,” London interrupted in a strained voice. “I don’t need to listen to you bicker about who’s responsible for what. What I need is for you to fix it.”

“Give me a raise,” Eric said instantly.

His request was met by complete silence.

“What?” Eric ventured, pouting. “Why shouldn’t I get a raise? That bastard just ruined my life.”

For a second, London looked like he was going to explode, but he miraculously managed to calm himself before replying, “We can’t have unequal pay or treatment between staff members with identical responsibilities, but I assure you we’ll attempt to compensate you accordingly for the added stress of—” he hesitated, and then trailed off with a frown. He seemed to be having some trouble grasping the right word.

“Fangirls,” Eric spat out bitterly. He knew exactly the right word for those devilish wenches, with their extended zoom lenses and camera phones.

“Yes,” London said, eyebrow twitching. “Fangirls.” The word sounded sour on his tongue.

“What about me?” Wyatt butted in. “Can I be compensated?”

London merely gave him a _look_. “Do you really need more money?”

“Well, no.” Wyatt sank into his seat sulkily. “It just doesn’t seem fair, is all.”

James stirred in his seat. “It certainly seems fair, given that you caused the situation in the first place.”

Wyatt kicked his seat and hissed, “You be quiet!”

Benignly, James looked at him and murmured, “I’m just mediating, Wyatt. No need to get violent.”

“Violent,” Wyatt hissed. “That wasn’t violent, but you know what is?” He swiveled and looked at Eric pointedly. “Grabbing somebody by their shirt and slamming them into a window _—_ ”

London cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Like I said, I don’t need to hear who did what. I just want you two to be careful, and not to encourage any of the fans to think anything… undesirable.”

“Yeah, Wyatt,” Eric said, crossing his arms grumpily. “Better not do anything like grab me and drag me up to your microphone and tell the crowd I’m a special snowflake.”

“I said nothing of the sort,” Wyatt shot back. “I told them you were a good roadie, which was apparently a lie. And _you’d_ better not do anything like storm onto my bus and shove me up against the wall.”

Bristling, Eric started to get up, a scornful comeback on the tip of his tongue, but James casually reached over and pushed him back into his seat with gentle hands.

“I think,” James began with an unruffled expression, “that we should all calm down and wait for this to blow over. If we don’t do anything else, they’ll forget about it, and we won’t have to worry.”

London nodded in concurrence. “I think that’s an excellent idea,” he said, stepping back, and smoothed down the front of his shirt with a pleasant expression.

“Good,” Eric muttered, looking around at the three band members. He pointed down the line of them seated on the couch and said, “You’d better all stay away from me. I don’t want any creepy teenage girls thinking I’m gay with you.”

“Fine by me,” Wyatt scoffed, and Fatty warily chimed in with, “Uh, okay?”

James said nothing. He merely smiled at them all and drummed his fingers on his knee, looking completely at ease.

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, there was one small problem with the plan: they had entirely underestimated their fanbase. It was sort of flattering, in a way, to think that news of them could travel so quickly simply by word of mouth. Or word of text, rather. Word of blog posts. Whatever. Regardless of the form of communication, the next day, the band’s website forum had been figuratively flooded by messages inspired by the scene on and outside of the bus, mostly pertaining to what the fangirls had decided to call “Wyric.”

“It looks like wyvern,” Eric said resentfully as he stared over Mitch’s shoulder at the laptop. “It’s retarded. _They’re_ retarded. Why is everybody freaking out over this?”

“That’s just the way fans are,” Mitch explained with a shrug.

Eric deflated. “I hate them.”

“Hate them all you want,” Mitch said softly, closing the laptop with a click. “It’s not going to change anything.”

They were seated in the lounge area of the staff bus, rumbling down the 5 from Portland to Oakland, each bemoaning their respectively sore muscles – Mitch more so than Eric, since the tiny blond had skimped out on his after-performance duties. Eric had also commandeered most of the sitting space by stretching out luxuriously along the cushions, leaving the taller man with scarcely so much as an arm rest.

To be quite honest, Eric was already sick of the fangirls and their crazy obsession with spreading unscrupulous rumors, and he had officially decided it was time to take matters into his own hands.

“Gimme that,” Eric demanded and stole the laptop from his fellow roadie’s lap, flipping the screen open to navigate back to the forums.

“Uh,” Mitch said, sliding closer to hover over Eric cautiously. “What’re you doing?”

“Fixing this,” he snapped, and clicked on the Wyric thread. “Mind if I comment using your name?”

“Yes,” Mitch answered with an apprehensive look.

“Too bad,” Eric quipped, and began typing.

_Stop writing this stuff, because I’m not fucking anyone here! That’s just wrong!! >:O_

“We never should have gotten a Sprint card,” Mitch moaned as he watched Eric type. “Will you please make your own username before you post something like that?”

Eric shot him a _look_. “What’s wrong with it?”

Mitch snorted. “You used an angry-eyebrow smiley face with two exclamation points. What _isn’t_ wrong with it?”

“You’re a little bitch,” Eric snorted, but dutifully logged out and made his own name before copying and pasting the same response and hitting the post button. “There.”

“They’re just going to think you’re a troll, you know,” Mitch noted belatedly.

Eric scowled at him. “What’s a troll?”

“Oh, God,” the other man muttered, palming his forehead in misery. “Don’t you know anything? Listen, don’t worry about it. Just don’t be surprised when you get a lot of angry responses—”

“Fanfiction!” Eric interrupted him with an angry shriek, pointing at the screen. “What is that?”

Mitch stared at him. “Uh. They’re like. I don’t know how to explain it. They’re stories about the band.”

“Why the hell do they need to write stories about them?”

“I think people have been asking that question since day one.” Mitch reached over and clicked the link. “See, okay, I don’t know, there are a bunch of stories about how much they want to have sex with the band, and then how much the band wants to have sex with each other, and—”

“Dude, is that _my name_?” Eric cut him off for a second time.

Mitch cringed. “Yes.”

For a long time, Eric didn’t say anything. He just stared at the laptop and the label with his name on it before peacefully closing the screen and pushing himself off the couch.

And then he went into his bunk, pulled his pillow over his face, and screamed.

 

* * *

 

“This shit is fucked up,” Eric declared upon their arrival in Kansas City, where the buses stopped so that the band and staff could purchase junk food and movies at a truck stop. It was colder in Kansas City than his beloved California, and so he’d pulled on a striped hoodie to fight back against the chilly October air as they’d descended upon the gas station’s convenience store. He was shoving gummy bears in his mouth at an alarming rate, talking around the chewy goodness in somewhat muffled tones and glaring at anything that moved. “I mean, seriously. What kind of disturbed individual is writing gay sex scenes about me and _Fatty_?”

“I don’t know,” Mitch answered, looking pointedly at the ceiling and nowhere near Eric. “I told you not to read any of it. And I don’t know why you’re so fixated on that, anyway. There’s a lot more about you and—”

“Don’t say it!” Eric shrieked, hurling the package of candy at his face. “Don’t you dare even say it!”

Mitch threw up his hands to defend himself. “Hey, don’t do that here! Have you even paid for those yet?”

“No,” Eric grumbled and reached down to scoop the pack of gummy bears back up. Luckily, only a few had fallen to the floor. “I figure it doesn’t matter. London will take care of it.”

“Right,” Mitch drawled, turning to examine a box of Junior Mints. “Do me a favor, and don’t buy anything caffeinated.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Eric muttered and flicked a lime-flavored gummy at the taller man’s head before he stalked out of the door. Outside, he jiggled the candy at London, mouthed ‘pay for this,’ and then wandered off to find something satisfying to kick.

He had just found a nice-looking rock in the grass beside the convenience store/gas station when his phone started vibrating in his pocket, and he jumped in surprise. After swearing under his breath and looking around to see if anyone had seen his embarrassing display, he flipped open his phone to find a text message from his best friend Peter.

_So I hear you’re famous and have five boyfriends. Not planning on filling me in?_

“That punk,” Eric growled, his angry tone contradicting his amused smirk, and quickly thumbed back a response: _Screw you._

Peter replied a split second later: _By the way, you sure handled yourself well in front of the cameras last night. :P_

Eric was always amazed by how quickly Peter could text. It was like a supernatural talent, he was so fast. He was like a 13-year-old girl from a cell phone commercial. Eric strongly suspected his phone had a full keyboard, or perhaps he was just incredibly well-acquainted with the T9 feature on his phone. A year ago, when Peter had first shipped off to go to college in Europe (the smart, lucky bastard), he’d only had a prepaid phone for when he landed, but Eric imagined by this point he’d gotten a real cell phone and a phone plan. Hopefully international, or else their texts were costing Peter’s parents a fortune.

He sent back: _Shut up._

And that was that. He clicked his phone shut, shoved it back in his pocket, and meandered over to the staff bus to eat his candy in peace. Or relative peace. As peaceful as the bus could get with Mitch lumbering back on, glaring at him, and making a very big show of taking his laptop and sticking it underneath the shirt he was wearing where Eric was certain not to make a grab for it. But at least it was quiet.


	3. Chapter 3

The part that Eric found most disturbing was how the band members seemed to take the entire fangirl situation in stride. Wyatt and Fatty even joked about it backstage before the next show, laughing and slugging each other on the shoulder as they commented on what an awful couple they would make. Even James laughed along.

When Wyatt started making cracks in front of a maximum occupancy crowd, however, Eric had to draw the line. Especially when it concerned Wyatt and himself. Wyric. Whatever.

As soon as the words left Wyatt’s lips and the audience started catcalling, Eric felt a pulse in his chest, followed by a heavy, roiling sensation of rage. His face flushed, his hands shook, and all he could picture were the crushing images of the loss of his anonymity, what this was doing to enable the crazed fan rumors, and worst of all, what if his parents found out? One minute he was shaking and grinding his teeth, vaguely aware that he didn’t think he could feel his limbs anymore, and then the next moment he was standing over Wyatt onstage with a folding chair.  He’d watched enough _Law and Order_ to know that sometimes people blacked out under extreme emotional distress and shot people, but he’d never thought it would happen to him. At least Wyatt wasn’t bleeding to death as Eric stood over him with a smoking gun.

Needless to say, Eric was quickly removed personally by London and no less than two security guards. Then he was forced to sit in a chair while London hissed in his ear about how he’d never before seen such appalling behavior, and Eric was definitely going to be dealt with appropriately. It was a very impressive speech that managed to be absolutely terrifying without swearing or threatening any sort of bodily harm, and had Eric not been sweating and shaking again, he might have complimented him on it.

After Eric was escorted from the venue, he was confined to the staff bus courtesy of Mr. Big Scary Security Guard. From what Eric was later told, Wyatt tried to convince everyone that he was okay to finish the show despite the obvious amount of pain he was in, but London insisted on rushing him immediately to the closest clinic. The ordeal ended with a herniated disc, a prescription for Vicodin, discounted merchandise for the inconvenienced fans, and a lot of dirty looks. Not to mention a Wyric forum boom, and a snarky text message from Peter.

_So you broke your boyfriend’s back. That can’t be good for your sex life._

Eric ignored it.

Even the next day as the bus was rolling along to the next show, Eric still couldn’t remember hitting him with that chair. He remembered the anger, and the stares afterwards, but that was all. Mostly the anger. Even now he was still angry – just who did Wyatt think he was, fooling around with Eric’s reputation like that? He totally deserved it.

They had one day of travel and one day of down time before the next show, but Wyatt had been sentenced to no less than seven days of bed rest by the doctor to reduce the swelling before he was cleared for any performances. This meant canceling all the shows for the next week and London refusing to make hotel reservations due to the financial crunch of giving refunds. Eric waited with no small amount of dread for the words from London that would end his job.

They never came.

When Eric asked about it, palms sweaty and his heart in his throat, London merely sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Wyatt asked me not to,” the manager explained, looking tired, and said no more on the subject.

Privately, Eric suspected it had something to do with all of Wyatt’s unprofessional advances. Whether it was to keep Eric there to continue the barrage or to prevent him from filing a law suit, Eric couldn’t be sure. Either way, he was happy to still have a job, so he kept his head down and said nothing.

 

* * *

 

Vicodin, Eric soon learned, had some very interesting effects. Like making certain singers rather loopy – as in, to the point where Eric boarded the band bus and was met by the sight of Wyatt sitting on the floor with an assortment of cups in front of him, laughing uproariously. Eric, rightfully so, wasn’t quite sure what to do about those circumstances, so he hung back by the doorway and watched with wide blue eyes as Wyatt made an utter fool of himself. No wonder London didn’t want Wyatt out in public right now.

“I’m not this thirsty,” Wyatt eventually mused in between chuckles, staring at the cups in wonderment. “I don’t need this much water. Why do I have so many cups?”

Eric let out a long sigh, his conscience finally kicking in, and squatted next to him to gather the cups out of pity. “I have no idea. You should have let me do it. You’re still supposed to be on bed rest for another two days.”

Squinting, Wyatt turned his hazel gaze to Eric in confusion and asked, “What’re you doing here?”

Eric rolled his eyes to the ceiling and prayed for the strength not to hit Wyatt with anything again. Part of his penance for nearly breaking Wyatt’s back was to take care of him while he was too drugged and injured to properly look after himself. Eric had already explained the situation over the past several days as he got into the ritual of walking over to the band bus every time they stopped for food, gas, or bathroom breaks on their way to Arkansas. They were taking it slow so as not to jostle Wyatt too badly while he was recovering.

Unfortunately, Wyatt’s Vicodin-crazed mind had the memory of a goldfish. With a deep breath, Eric dredged up the strength to force a smile that looked more like a grimace and said, “I’m here because London is making me.” A pause. “Because I hit you with that chair.”

            “Oh,” Wyatt said, blinking at him from behind his glasses and looking rather small. Yet Eric still couldn’t bring himself to feel bad – at least he was being honest. And yes, maybe he was still somewhat satisfied that his rage-engulfed mind had gotten the bright idea to whack Wyatt in the spine with a chair, because he was still under the impression that Wyatt had it coming.

“Wait a minute,” Wyatt said, his voice rising with urgency, and snapped his fingers in Eric’s direction. “It’s you! I know you.”

Eric rolled his eyes and replaced the cups in the cabinet, keeping one for Wyatt. All the buses were equipped with full galley facilities, so he crossed to the sink, filled the cup with water, and handed it to Wyatt. “Fancy that,” he drawled. “All those times you harassed me, and you recognize me. I’m flattered.”

Wyatt promptly spilled the drink down his shirt. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he continued, seemingly unconcerned by the spill. “I’m helping you out. All the fans like you now. I introduced you, remember?”

The compliment nearly balanced out the unsightly reminder of the incident. “Yes, I remember. Thanks for that, really,” he bit out icily.

“No problem,” Wyatt said, grinning, and actually looked lucid for a moment. And then he started laughing again, slowly slumping sideways until he was stretched out across the floor. “Oh, man, I can’t feel _anything_. This stuff is great.”

Eric bit back a smile at Wyatt’s antics. “Good for you.”

That invoked another round of laughter with Wyatt rolling around on the floor, and Eric merely pressed two fingers to his temple and let out a noisy sigh.

“No wonder London put me on babysitting duty while everyone else went out to dinner,” he muttered, reaching down to pry the cup from Wyatt’s hands. “Who would have thought you’d respond this strongly to Vicodin?”

“I knew,” Wyatt replied with an unfairly amused look. He was grinning, the expression stretching so wide that it made his eyes crinkle into two vibrant hazel slits, magnified by his thick glasses. It might have been endearing if Eric hadn’t hated him right then.

“What do you mean, you knew?” Eric asked as he filled up Wyatt’s cup.

Wyatt grinned wider and brushed a shock of red hair off his forehead, then repeated the gesture no less than three times as the hair refused to stay in place. Eventually he held his hand over it as he said, “I had a kidney stone in tenth grade, and they put me on Vicodin for the pain. It made me so crazy that they had to switch my meds.”

Eric frowned and put the cup in Wyatt’s hands. “And you didn’t _tell_ anybody?”

“Nope," Wyatt said with a ridiculous grin, fingers curling around the cup, thankfully not spilling it. “Why would I? It’s fun at first. It’s not until later that it gets bad.”

“Bad?” Eric echoed, but lilting sounds of conversation outside the bus drew his attention. Wyatt took the opportunity to try to drink his water and ended up dumping it on his lap. Eric made a frustrated noise like a boiling tea kettle and turned to fetch a dish rag just as the bus door opened.

James ascended inside first. His green eyes widened momentarily, flickering to Wyatt, then the various puddles on the floor, and finally to Eric before his expression smoothed over with a graceful smile. “Hello, Eric,” he greeted, walking past them and into the lounge, where he promptly claimed a place on the couch and kicked his feet up. “How are things with Wyatt?”

 “Look for yourself.” Stepping away from the door, he motioned to Wyatt, who was still lying down on the floor, giggling like a seven-year-old girl.

James arched his eyebrows. “I see. That’s… interesting.”

“Why is he all wet?” asked Fatty, who had been walking behind James, and was now stepping inside, blinking owlishly at the scene from behind his dark, curly bangs.

Eric scowled. “Because he keeps spilling water on himself.”

“Uh, okay.” Fatty remained in the doorway for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck, before he ducked his head and joined James on the couch. Leaning in toward him, he whispered quietly but not quietly enough for Eric not to hear, “Maybe we shouldn’t have left them alone together.”

 _Yeah, but not for the reasons you’d think_ , Eric thought sourly to himself.

Rather than expose Wyatt, Eric instead chose to graciously ignore the comment and do his job. He took Wyatt’s cup and set it on the counter, standing next to the singer’s wet legs with a gusty sigh. He considered just leaving and advising James and Fatty to get Wyatt some clean clothes, or at least a bendy straw to drink from to avoid future disasters, but with those words in his mouth he felt like a parent leaving a toddler to a teenage babysitter. Best to just do it himself and get it over with.

“Come on, up,” he said, offering his hand to Wyatt, and wondered if pulling him upright this way would hurt his back. He didn’t want to be responsible for any more disasters. “Can you stand?”

Wyatt tilted his chin up and blinked at him. “M’tired.”

“Great.” Squatting next to him, Eric pushed Wyatt’s shoulders until he’d rolled the singer onto his stomach. He figured getting onto his knees would be easier than sitting up. “You can go to bed as soon as you get to your bunk.”

“Okayyy,” Wyatt said in a long puff of air, climbing to his knees, and put his hands on Eric to steady himself as he rose to his feet. Eric wasn’t one hundred percent sure that it had been necessary for Wyatt to touch him, Eric doubted even a drugged up Wyatt was stupid enough to do anything inappropriate with James and Fatty on the bus. Eric’s suspicions died completely when Wyatt immediately removed his hands and began hobbling pathetically toward the bunks.

“You gonna help him?” James asked from the couch.

“He’s fine on his own,” Eric muttered as he trailed along behind Wyatt. They were moving at a snail’s pace, and Wyatt kept using the wall for support, but Eric refused to help him.

“Wyatt?” James leaned forward earnestly. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Wyatt said with a lazy smile. “It doesn’t hurt. I’m just dizzy.”

James frowned and looked back at Eric. “I think he can have another pill now. Would you mind getting them?”

“Sure,” Eric said, happy to be free from Wyatt-watching for a moment, and backtracked to the kitchen where the transparent orange bottle of pills was sitting by the sink. He held it up and squinted at the label. Once every four hours, it said. Was that a lot?

“Did you find it?” James called.

Jumping, Eric looked over his shoulder and saw that Wyatt had made it successfully into the bunk and James was staring at him expectantly. “Uh, yeah.” He crossed back to the couch and handed the bottle over.

“Thanks,” James said with a smile.  “You can go now, if you want.”

Eric leaned to the side, trying to catch a look into the bunk area to see if Wyatt had made it to his bed safely or if he’d just passed out on the floor. Not that he cared, he reminded himself. “You sure?”

“Of course,” James assured him, waving a hand dismissively toward the door. “We’ll see you later.”

“Yeah, later,” Eric echoed, pulling his gaze back to James. “Thanks,” he added, and waved over his shoulder before he left.

Once down the steps, he remained standing outside, staring up at the dark-tinted windows until the engine of the staff bus started and he knew it was time to leave.

 

* * *

 

Aside from babysitting Wyatt, once the week was up and Wyatt was cleared to perform, Eric’s new duties also included helping the lead singer on and off stage, settling him onto the chair provided for him, and lowering the microphone to the appropriate height. Ignoring the whistles and adoring calls from fangirls was hard, but luckily they weren’t often meant for him, and Eric could bear with it if it meant not losing his job. Money was key to surviving, very key, and he would rather choke and die before he went back to live with his parents. Even Wyatt’s crazy Vicodin-inspired rambling was better than that.

Before the show, Wyatt stretched out his legs so that his knees didn’t bother him so much, which was apparently a crazy side effect from herniated discs, and leaned into the microphone. “Hey, guys,” he greeted in a rare show of coherence, his grin only half-loopy, and scratched at the stubble on his cheek. “I’m on Vicodin because of my little mishap with Eric's chair, so be nice to me if I mess up, okay?”

He was met with mixed laughter and applause, and everybody took that as a good sign. Seeing as the tour was not ruined by Eric’s disastrous chair rage, plus the fact that they’d now gained sympathy from half the music world, London only glared at him with a quarter of wrath as usual. And now that Wyatt was no longer in pain, James and Fatty just seemed to find the entire situation incredibly funny, and they spent a lot of time convincing Wyatt that they were all in outer space.

Eric was not amused, especially when he had to coax Wyatt out of the bathroom because he would not, in fact, implode upon leaving, regardless of what he had recently been taught about the vacuum of space and pressure and so forth. It involved a lot of sweet-talking and, in one extreme case, literal hand-holding, and Eric had since resolved to one day get his revenge. Other than that, though, he was glad to see that things were getting better.

 

* * *

 

Looking back, Eric really, really wished he’d listened to Wyatt’s warning about his later reaction to Vicodin. When Wyatt had said _bad_ , he’d just assumed that his craziness would get worse or something – giggling at the walls or talking to the couch, maybe. Things like that. He had definitely not been expecting the veritable emotional maelstrom that tore the tour bus apart the next week.

It had started off innocently enough when Eric walked over from the staff bus to help Wyatt eat breakfast. While Wyatt was now functional, he was still taking Vicodin as needed. The biggest problem seemed to be dizziness, and Wyatt couldn’t even get himself a drink of water, so the responsibility fell to Eric to help him out. When Eric arrived, Wyatt was lounging on the couch, red hair askew as he stared desolately into space, and Eric waved his hand in front of his face twice before venturing out with a, “Hello?”

Wyatt’s intense hazel gaze immediately snapped to Eric’s face, and his lip curled in abrupt distaste as he took in the other man. “You’re here,” he muttered sourly.

“Um, yeah,” Eric said, somewhat surprised by the bitter welcome. “Just like every other day. What’s wrong?”

“You broke my back,” Wyatt muttered, sinking into the couch. “And I hate you.”

“You hate me,” Eric repeated with a frown. “Well, that’s news to me. I thought you liked me, what with how you were always pawing at me.” An exaggeration, to be sure, but Eric didn’t like being told people hated him. Snarky exaggerations were a defense mechanism.

“Not anymore,” Wyatt declared. He struggled for a few moments with getting out of his seat, then finally made it to his feet and into Eric’s personal space, practically nose to nose – or, well, nose to chin, because Wyatt was almost an entire head taller. “I didn’t used to hate you, but then you had to break my fucking back. Who can like anyone after that?”

 _I think I liked the other Wyatt better_ , Eric thought a touch frantically, taking a few steps back to avoid Wyatt’s almost palpable ire. “It’s not broken. You have a herniated disc, and pain killers, and the doctor said you’ll have full mobility in another week,” he pointed out flatly.

Wyatt ignored him. “You’re mean to me all the time,” he raved, gesticulating madly, and followed every step Eric took backward with two awkward, shuffling steps forward until he had him cornered by the bathroom. “You’re mean to me all the time, and all I did was like you. I mean, I really _liked_ you. I was nice to you. I smiled and joked around with you, and you’re just an immature brat who’s always glaring at me and acting like I’m some depraved pervert—”

“You are a depraved pervert,” Eric interrupted, feeling that familiar flicker of anger even as he shrank away from Wyatt in self defense.

“— _I am not a depraved pervert_ ,” Wyatt countered with a withering glare, “and I fucking hate you now, okay? So congratulations, I’ll be out of your face now, so you’d better stay out of mine.” And then he opened the nearest door, disappeared inside, and shut Eric out with a resounding slam.

Several minutes passed while Eric stared at the door in shock, and then Wyatt surprised him by opening the door a quarter inch and peeking out at him almost shyly.

“Eric?” asked Wyatt in a soft, childish tone.

Eric swallowed down his rage and put on a polite face. “Yes?”

“I’m in the bathroom,” Wyatt said, and then opened the door, suddenly looking very vulnerable in his dirty pajamas. “Why am I in the bathroom?”

“Because you had to pee,” Eric lied, taking the drugged up singer by the arm, and led him into the lounge. “And now I’m going to make breakfast, and you’re going to eat it, and you’re going to _like_ it.”

“Okay,” Wyatt murmured quietly and curled up on the couch again, still within eyeshot of the blond.

“Good,” Eric said, and set about pouring two bowls of cereal.

 

* * *

 

Eric awoke at approximately 6:30 the next day to the obnoxious tones of Fur Elise, which

the blond quickly silenced by flipping his phone open and mumbling into the receiver. “Hello?”

“Eric!” Andrew chirped, sounding far, far too awake for such an ungodly hour. “How’re you doing?”

“Andrew?” Eric rubbed his eyes and adjusted himself so he wasn’t speaking halfway into his pillow. He could hear Mitch shifting around in the bunk above him, so he hastily lowered his voice to avoid waking anyone. “What’re you doing? It’s like six in the morning.”

“Sorry,” Andrew said, and he at least had the decency to sound sheepish. “It’s eight here. I was on my way to the gym, and it’s been a while since you last called, so I thought I’d check in with you.”

“Um.” Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, Eric pulled his blanket up from where they’d tangled around his legs and tried very hard to think clearly. “I’m okay, I guess?” he murmured uncertainly as the events of the past several days slowly trickled into his brain. “Oh, wait, wait. No. My life sucks. I’m babysitting a twenty-six year old.”

“What?” Andrew asked, sounding caught off guard, and Eric imagined him tripping on a piece of uneven sidewalk as he walked out to his car. “Babysitting a twenty-six year old – are you sure you’re awake, Eric?”

“Mm,” Eric said into the phone, scrubbing at his face. “Haven’t you heard?”

“I don’t exactly keep up with the music scene,” his twin confessed.

“Right, right. Okay.” Sighing deeply, Eric burrowed deeper beneath his blankets and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’ll catch you up to speed, then. The other week, I hit the lead singer with a chair, and—”

“You hit someone with a _chair_?” Andrew yelled.

Eric held the phone away from his ear and made a face. “Yes. Do you have to be so loud?”

“ _Yes_!” Andrew replied in an utterly appalled voice. “Eric, how could you ever do that? Do you have any idea what Mom and Dad would say?”

“I don’t _care_ what Mom and Dad would say,” Eric snapped, suddenly moody, and turned to punch his pillow. “Are you going to listen or what?”

“Okay, okay,” Andrew said and took what sounded like a long, calming breath. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you,” he muttered. “As I was saying, I hit him with a chair, and now his back is fucked up, so the band manager is forcing me to take care of him until he’s better because it was my fault.”

“Oh.” Andrew paused momentarily. Eric could hear the sound of a car door slamming. “Well, that doesn’t seem so bad.”

“Not so bad,” Eric repeated flatly. “Yeah. Feeding cereal to a grown man isn’t _humiliating_ or anything.”

“Well, that’s kind of minimal punishment for hitting someone with a chair, and I’m sure it’s more embarrassing for him that it is for you,” Andrew pointed out sensibly. It irrationally made Eric want to smack him for being so mature about the whole thing. When he talked to his brother, he expected sympathy, not life lessons.

“Yeahhh.” Huffing, Eric rolled to the edge of his bunk to and poked his head out to make sure everyone was still sleeping before he said, as quietly as possible, “I guess I’m also famous for having gay sex with him.”

“Wait, what? _What_?” Andrew stammered. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” he said, and before his twin could freak out, he continued, “Chill, I’m not actually having sex with him. I was joking. The fans are crazy, and there’s a very interesting story behind it that I don’t feel like going into at the moment. Just be aware that a bunch of teenage girls know my blood type and like to write about me having gay sex with various people in the band.”

“Okay,” Andrew replied, sounding numb. “I have to drive now, so I’m going to let you go, but I’m going to make you explain everything to me later, okay?”

“Mhm,” Eric mumbled. He could already feel the faint tug of sleep seducing him back into a dream. “Love you, Drew. Talk to you later.”

“Oh,” Andrew said, as though suddenly remembering something. “I bought tickets for the Milwaukee show, so I was hoping we could hang out while you’re here. Does that sound okay?”

“Yep.” Eric had no idea what he was responding to at this point; he wanted to sleep, and he wanted to sleep _now_. They had a signing the next day, and Drew just wouldn’t _shut up_ …

“I love you, Eric. Stay safe, and don’t hit anyone with any chairs.”

And then he hung up, and Eric fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

Eric didn’t know how, but the fact that he’d been appointed as Wyatt’s nurse somehow leaked out to the public before their first scheduled signing. London had given him a rather explicit verbal warning about encouraging fangirl thinking, so he was doing his best to stay out of the way, which mostly involved huddling in his bunk while Mitch and the other roadies got to walk around and have a good time. Eventually, however, Eric got hungry, and the Froot Loops in the cupboard didn’t look particularly appealing after already eating them for breakfast and a brunchtime snack, so he bucked up and decided to venture out into the fray.

This, of course, was a very bad idea, because people did not just want autographs from the band. Eric had expected some kind of normal, rational response from the fan base, like being mauled for daring to injure the lead singer, but instead of that seemingly logical reaction, people apparently wanted autographs from Eric as well. He quickly discovered this fact as a small, bouncy girl with curly hair darted up to him upon his first appearance near the autograph table.

“Are you Eric?” she asked, brandishing a photograph that had already been signed by Wyatt, Fatty, and James.

“Ummm,” he said, eyes going wide with a hunted look, which the girl instantly took to mean _yes_.

“Can I please have your autograph?” she asked as she thrust out the picture pleadingly.

“I don’t have a pen,” he said, feeling helpless, and looked around for someone to save him. He saw Mitch somewhere across the room, but the other man merely gave him an apologetic look before he ducked behind a display for the band’s latest album.

 _That fucker_.

“Oh, don’t worry about it, I have a pen,” the fan told him excitedly. With a bright smile, she pulled a Sharpie out of her back pocket and brandished it with a hopeful expression, eyes locking onto Eric’s with enthusiasm.

“Err.” Eric shifted uneasily before he accepted the marker. “Okay, then.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” she squealed, standing perilously close to his side to watch as he quickly signed his name. “Your middle name is Macy?” she asked once he’d finished.

Eric immediately cringed. Maybe he should have shortened his signature. “Yes, it is. Do you have a problem with that?”

“No way,” she gushed as she let go of his arm. “It’s actually kind of cool. Now I know something extra about you.”

“Uh, yeah,” he said, somewhat awkwardly, and returned the Sharpie.

She took it, but did not leave, instead choosing to stand in front of him and continue smiling. “So, where were you born?”

He blinked, caught off guard. “I, uh… not… here?” Slowly, he started scooting to the side, darting glances around to make sure no one other fans had seen him yet. He caught sight of the table where the band had set up for signing and began shuffling in that direction. “Why do you want to know, anyway?”

She looked at him coyly from beneath her eyelashes. “Oh, you know, it’s just interesting to meet someone from the band.”

Eric flattened himself against the wall and scuttled a little farther away so that he had a clear shot at the table. “I’m not part of the band,” he protested weakly.

“Being part of the road crew is good enough,” she chirruped. “How old are you, by the way?”

“Twenty,” he managed to grunt before he flung himself away from the wall and made a mad dash for the band table. He took a flying leap over a poorly-positioned chair and debated on the pros and cons of hiding underneath the table before he decided to latch onto James’s arm instead. “Help me,” he begged with a wild look in his eyes.

Turning to him with only mild surprise, James pursed his lips for a moment before he said, “Help you with what?”

“People are asking me for autographs, and I don’t know what to do!”

James regarded him thoughtfully. “Sign them?”

Eric glared and shook him. “I don’t want to!”

“So why are you asking _me_ for help?”

“Because Wyatt is high and Fatty is retarded,” he hissed, digging his fingers into James’s forearm. “It really hurts me to say this, but you’re the most sensible person here. Please, just tell me what to do.”

“Let me go, first of all,” James replied as he extracted his arm from Eric’s desperate grasp. “Secondly, go back to the bus and stay there.”

“But I’m hungry,” he said stubbornly.

“You’re making a scene,” he pointed out as he nodded to the surrounding throng of fans, most of them holding glossy pictures of the band or CDs to be signed. Most of them were in line for an autograph, but some of them had stopped to watch Eric with wide eyes as he crouched on the floor and made a general ass of himself.

“Oh.” Horrified, Eric straightened and began picking invisible dust off his shirt sleeve in an attempt to salvage his dignity. “Well, then. I guess I’ll be going—”

“Eric!” Wyatt shouted as he abruptly noticed the blond’s existence. When Eric turned to look at him, the musician’s pupils were dilated and his grin was anything but lucid. It was quite a change from the caustic greeting Wyatt had given him last time, though, so Eric supposed he should have been thankful.

Hesitantly, Eric met his loopy gaze and said, “Yes?”

“I need you to do something for me.” Wyatt beamed and slouched in his chair to dig hurriedly through his pockets. “I want Skittles. Will you buy me Skittles? You always get things for me.”

“Hey, Wyatt,” Fatty interrupted in a valiant attempt to stop the fangirl ammo Wyatt was unknowingly supplying in his doped up quest for candy. “Sign this, will you? You’re making everybody wait.”

“I want _Skittles_ ,” he insisted, looking at Eric with pleading hazel eyes. “Will you go buy some for me?”

“Skittles,” Eric repeated as he held out his hand to accept the change from Wyatt. “Sure.”

“Thanks.” For one horrifying moment, it looked like Wyatt was going to reach over and hug him, but Fatty nimbly intercepted by grabbing the back of the redhead’s shirt and yanking him back down into his seat.

“C’mon, Wyatt!” the drummer said cheerfully as he set down a photograph and a Sharpie in front of him. “You’ve got work to do.”

Groaning, Wyatt let his head thunk down onto the table and declared, “I don’t want to.”

“Please don’t slack off.” With an admonishing frown, James pushed the picture directly in front of Wyatt’s face and gently lifted the musician’s head. “You’ve only got two more hours of this, and then we can eat dinner and watch movies, okay?”

“Can I have more Vicodin?” Wyatt whimpered, muffled against the table. “My back hurts.”

“No,” James said, not unkindly. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea right now. You’re crazy enough as it is.”

“I am _not_ crazy,” Wyatt snapped and suddenly grabbed the Sharpie, signing whatever was closest to him with renewed zeal, including the actual table itself and a napkin that had been stranded innocently nearby.

“Uh.” Eric was still standing next to James, clutching a handful of Wyatt’s loose change and shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Do I still have to get the Skittles?”

Apparently, Wyatt was too lost in his autographing craze to respond, so James was left to look at him speculatively before nodding once. “If you don’t mind. Otherwise, he’ll remember later and throw a fit.”

“Okay,” Eric agreed, eyeing the fangirls with a wary expression. “Can I have some extra money to get myself something so I can go hide on the bus again?”

James merely looked pointedly at the rather large pile of change in Eric’s hands.

“Right,” he said with a nervous little laugh, backing up two paces. “I’ll be right back, then.”

The vending machine was only a little ways down the hall, so Eric figured that he could make it there without further incident as long as he kept his head down and made eye contact with absolutely no one.

Eric really needed to stop underestimating the fans.

The line for autographs was long enough that it had zigzagged across the room and into the hall, and fans at the back of the line began stirring as he stopped at the vending machine, which provided them with the opportunity to get a good look at his face.

“Isn’t he a roadie?” someone asked. “What’s his name?”

“I don’t know,” another girl murmured. “What’s he doing?”

 _What’s it look like?_ he thought to himself and rolled his eyes. _I’m buying food_.

Hunching his shoulders, Eric punched in the numbers for Tropical Skittles and silently began praying for a quick and easy death. The candy dangled precariously before dropping to the bottom of the machine, and Eric stooped to retrieve it and quickly stuffed it into his jacket pocket before looking for something to get for himself.

“Hey,” the first girl called out. “What’s your name?”

 _Fuck_. He decided to ignore her and quickly jabbed the numbers for the first kind of chips he saw, pleading mentally with them to drop as quickly as possible.

“Hold on,” she said, presumably to her friend, and got out of line to join him at the vending machine. “Hello!” she greeted brightly, right next to his face, and there was no way for Eric to pretend he hadn’t heard her or that he thought she was speaking to someone else.

“Err,” he stuttered, looking at her with wide eyes as he realized how utterly screwed he was. He should have just abandoned his chips and ran. “Can I help you?”

“Your chips dropped,” she pointed out in lieu of answering his question.

Indeed they had. He muttered something unintelligible and leaned down to stick his hand through the little flippy door and shoved the bag of chips into his pocket next to the Skittles. The girl kept staring at him expectantly, and he eventually offered a wary, “Thanks.”

“No problem,” she said, squinting at him. “You’re staff, right?”

 _Crap_ , he thought wildly. _Where the fuck is security when you need them?_

“Yes,” he admitted, then cringed at his stupidity and began inching to the right to purchase a soda. This situation sure did seem familiar. He slid the coins in cautiously, keeping an eye on the fangirl, and ventured out with, “Why do you care?”

She overstepped his question easily and countered with one of her own. “What’s your name?”

“Uhhh.” Eric stared at her blankly. “It’s… Andrew,” he said finally, because that was the only other name of which he could think. Feeling the jittery strains of panic settling in, he hit the Diet Coke button with something akin to hysteria and attempted to sink into the wall.

“Andrew,” she repeated with a contemplative look. “I think you’re lying.”

“I think you’re, uh…” The Diet Coke fell and Eric grabbed it and managed to make an apologetic face. “Sorry, gotta go. Wyatt wants his Skittles.” And then he went tearing off down the hallway, stopping to fling the Skittles in the singer’s face, and then ran all the way back to the staff bus.

If he were completely honest with himself, it was possible that he felt a small, miniscule spark of respect for the band for dealing with that kind of constant, suffocating attention all the time. Even Wyatt.


	4. Chapter 4

It wasn’t until Eric started babysitting Wyatt that he’d realized how utterly shitty the staff’s bus was. Now that he’d gotten an eyeful of the luxurious band bus, he felt justifiably enraged by the subpar conditions in which he was being forced to live. The staff bus, like the band bus, was still a sleeper bus with kitchen facilities and bunk beds, but beyond that, the differences were unfathomable. The band bus had a plasma TV. Video game systems. 3G internet, instead of the shitty Sprint card Mitch had for his laptop. It was utterly ridiculous. Given these circumstances, Eric could only see one possible solution: sneaking onto the other bus. Being banished back to his bunk during the signing gave him the perfect opportunity to do just that.

Once inside, Eric took it upon himself to pop in a DVD and then laid down on the couch with his feet propped on the armrest. “This is so awesome,” he said to himself, smirking, and settled back to enjoy the rest of his evening.

He never planned on falling asleep.

 

* * *

 

“Eric Forster,” James cool voice awoke him hours later, “what are you doing here?”

“Be quiet,” he muttered, burrowing against the over-stuffed cushions. “I’m sleeping.”

“You’re on the wrong bus,” he said, pulling Eric up by the arm. The blond swatted at him uselessly as James heaved him off the couch and into a standing position.

“Eh?” At that, Eric’s eyes snapped open, and he rapidly looked around in confusion. Wyatt was in the kitchen staring at a box of cereal in the cabinet, apparently utterly transfixed, and Fatty was turning off the TV as James stood there with his hand on Eric’s arm. Thankfully, London was nowhere to be seen, so Eric wasn’t in trouble just yet.

Apparently, the cereal box wasn’t actually that entertaining, because Wyatt abruptly noticed him and grinned. “Skittles!” he called.

“Uhhh.” Eric raised an eyebrow in confusion. “Skittles?”

“You brought me skittles earlier,” he crowed, abandoning the cabinets in favor of staggering toward the Eric like a drunkard.

“Um,” Eric said, shuffling his feet and refusing to look at anyone. “Okay, then. I’ll just be going now.”

“Don’t, we’ll miss you!” In a burst of movement that would probably absolutely kill Wyatt’s back later, the singer practically leapt forward and grabbed Eric’s arm. Eric politely shrugged him off.

 “I really have to get going,” he insisted. “London will be mad if he finds out I’ve been mooching off your stuff.”

“London is already going to kill you, because he’s the one who told me to wake you up,” James cut in. Pursing his lips, he took Wyatt by the arm and slowly drew him away from Eric. “Wyatt,” he murmured gently to the singer, “why don’t you go to bed? You look exhausted.”

“I’m…” Wyatt trailed off, blinking, and unexpectedly turned to stare at Eric again. “What’re you doing here?”

“Oh, God,” Fatty said, laughing and covering his mouth. “He’s so high. He has to be faking this shit.”

“Cyrus,” James chided with a frown. “That’s not appropriate.”

Rolling his eyes, Fatty mumbled an insincere, “Sorry,” and sank down onto the couch cushion Eric had recently vacated.

 “Right. Uh. I’ll just be leaving, then,” Eric said, pointing over his shoulder, and cautiously opened the door.

Wyatt reached out to hug him with a chirped, “Bye, Eric!” but James calmly yanked him away.

“Goodbye,” James said, smiling as he held Wyatt back with one arm.

Eric probably should have been more disturbed by Wyatt’s attempt to hug him, but really, he was just relieved Wyatt hadn’t tried to grab his ass. Although he couldn’t be sure that hadn’t been Wyatt’s true intention. Deciding he needed to vacate the premises before London returned to kill him, Eric offered a half-hearted wave and a mumbled, “Bye,” before fleeing to the relative safety of the staff bus.

 

* * *

 

Mitch, Eric soon discovered, was an even bigger bastard than Wyatt.

“ _No_ ,” Mitch grunted, clutching his laptop protectively to his chest. “Eric, you just borrowed this yesterday. You can’t have it.”

Irritated, Eric blew his hair out of his face and gestured exaggeratedly with his fist. “If you don’t let me use it, I will punch you in the face.”

Mitch stared. “Eric, I could probably crush you with my foot.”

Eric made a strangled noise and smacked the taller man’s shoulder in frustration. “I’ll hit you with a chair, whatever. You know I’m capable. Come on, I’m behind in _everything_ –  nobody thinks I’m me anymore because I stopped posting!”

“Oh, God,” Mitch moaned as he sunk down onto their ugly-patterned couch. “Please, not this bullshit again.”

“It’s not bullshit,” Eric protested, hitting him again, harder. “This is my reputation on the line, Mitchell.”

Mitch glared. “My full name isn’t Mitchell. It’s just Mitch.”

“Whatever.” Puffing out his cheeks in aggravation, Eric swept his hand through his disheveled blond hair and sighed.  “If you just let me borrow it for five minutes, I’ll leave you alone until the end of the next show.”

Eyeing him warily, Mitch uncurled from his protective, fetal-like position around his laptop and asked, “Do you promise?”

“What are we, teenage girls?” Eric snapped, but Mitch just kept staring at him. “Fine,” he growled, exasperated. “I pinky swear. Now gimme.”

Before Mitch could reply, Eric snatched the laptop and scuttled off to the front of the bus to start a new topic on the band’s website.

_Some of you apparently believe I’m not actually Eric Forster, so I’m here to prove you wrong. Tomorrow night I’ll wear a yellow shirt so watch for it!_

Feeling rather satisfied with his ingenious new plan, he shut the laptop and handed it back to Mitch with a pleased smile.

“That was fast,” Mitch noted as he accepted his computer, looking down at it somewhat suspiciously. “And your smile is creepy, man. Please tell me you weren’t looking at porn or something.”

“What?” Eric sputtered, all semblance of pleasure suddenly devoid from his face. “What the hell made you think _that_?”

“You looked kind of content. You _never_ look content.”

“Well, I’m content now, jackass,” Eric snapped, stomping back toward his bunk. “I don’t need to listen to your crap. I’m gonna go play Tetris.”

“Good luck with that,” Mitch snorted.

 _Good luck with that_ , Eric echoed mockingly in his head as he unzipped his suitcase and rummaged around for his Nintendo DS. It was buried beneath his underwear with its charger, and Eric pulled it out and flipped it around to find that Tetris DS was already in. Smirking, he lay down in his bunk and thought smugly to himself that Mitch would sure be sorry he made fun of Tetris the next time they needed to rearrange something to accommodate more space. Eric was a motherfucking Tetris master.

 

* * *

 

The day Wyatt came off Vicodin two weeks later was a great day indeed. Or at least it was in Eric’s opinion, because he no longer had to fetch Skittles or any of the ridiculous things Wyatt randomly crazed while he was drugged. No Vicodin Day was akin to Independence Day in Eric’s mind; no more coaxing Wyatt out of closets; no more kissing ass after one of the redhead’s emotional tantrums; no more babysitting; no more _anything_ , period.

Strangely, however, not one day afterward, he mostly found himself feeling bored rather than elated. Terribly, terribly bored. And this displeased him greatly.

“Peter,” he whined into the phone from his spot on the couch, too close to death by boredom to care about long-distance fees. “My life sucks.”

“Your life always sucks,” Peter noted, his voice crackling faintly with static.

“No, but this time it actually sucks,” Eric grumbled, fidgeting to try to find a more comfortable spot among the cushions. “Listen. You have no idea what’s been happening lately.”

Peter laughed in response. “I know more than you think I do,” he said. “Anyone who keeps up with the music scene knows that Wyatt has a crush on you.”

Eyes widening, Eric suddenly froze in his fidgeting, which left him in a very uncomfortable position with his elbow jutting into the aisle. His heart may have actually stopped for a moment. All he could think was, _How in the hell did people find out about this_?

Eventually, he coaxed his voice out with a tiny, “Pardon me?”

“There are pictures of him hanging all over you,” Peter said, not skipping a beat. “And I think there’s a youtube video of him calling you a pet name.”

Eric’s heart resumed beating again. Photos from when he was taking care of Wyatt. Of course. That made so much more sense. “Pet name?” he asked.

“Skittles, or something.”

“That’s not a pet name,” Eric laughed, stretching his legs out over the arm rest. “I was just buying him candy, that’s all.”

 Peter hummed and clucked his tongue. “Too bad that’s not what the fan base thinks.”

“Fuck what the fan base thinks,” Eric snapped. This was an anger with which he was well-acquainted. Feeling a rant growing, he surged out of his seat and began pacing up and down, preparing to launch into a tirade about how privacy was undervalued in this society and he was going to start wearing aviator sunglasses when he went out. Sadly, the dramatic effect was ruined by the rumble of the bus, and he ended up wobbling inelegantly back onto the couch.

“Touchy subject?” Peter guessed.

“Hell yes,” he said heatedly. ““This is _my_ life, and I’m tired of a bunch of stupid scenesters ruining it for me with their creepy gay obsessions.”

“So stop letting them,” Peter said simply.

“And how am I supposed to do _that_?” Eric asked with more than a little bitterness in his tone. “Everywhere I go, everything I do – it’s all fucking _catalogued_. It feels like some of these fans know me better than even _I_ do.”

Peter paused for a moment. “That’s kind of sad.”

“Oh, shut up.” Bracing himself with one hand against the back of the couch while the bus went over a particularly bumpy patch of road, Eric frowned and continued, “It’s creepy, Pete. They’ve got me pegged so well that half the time I start to wonder if maybe I really am fucking half the band. I’m concerned for my personal well-being, here. Wyatt is always hitting on me and I think James has limp wrists.”

 “Is anyone not gay?” Peter asked in amusement.

“Of course not _everyone_ is gay,” Eric said in exasperation. Mitch, who was sitting near the front of the bus by the driver, glared at him, and Eric hurried to correct himself. “I mean, _none_ of us are gay. At all. At least Mitch looks straight to me.”

Mitch looked satisfied and flashed him a thumbs up.

“Anyway,” Eric said, eager to get away from the topic of gayness. “Pete, you have to help me.”

“Help you with what?” asked Peter.

“My life,” he crowed. “It sucks, remember?”

“I remember,” the other man drawled in amusement, followed by some shuffling and the sound of a drawer opening and closing.

 “What’re you doing?” Eric asked, latching onto the sound effects. “You should be giving me your full attention. I’ve got a crisis on my hands.”

“Mm,” Peter sighed into the phone. “I know, and I will give you advice later.”

“Later?” Eric echoed. “What about right now?”

“As amusing as your gay identity crisis is, Lex is coming over in about five minutes, and I’m still not dressed, so—”

“Lex?” Eric yelled so loudly that Mitch looked up again in annoyance. “Who’s that?”

“Oh, I didn’t tell you? I’m seeing someone,” Peter explained flippantly.

Eric felt irrational anger building in his gut. “Since when? No, wait – don’t even answer that. How is it that I’ve got creepy fangirls writing about my preference for barbeque flavored potato chips and Diet Coke, and you’re out getting laid every night?”

“It’s a new thing,” his friend murmured. “But really, I have to go, or I’m going to look like crap. I’ll text you, okay?”

Eric tried not to sulk and failed spectacularly. “You’d better.”

“Mmkay. I’ll talk to you later, Eric.”

“Uh huh,” the blond said numbly, and snapped his phone shut.

 

* * *

 

Unfortunately, Eric’s life was about to get a whole lot worse. The worst day of Eric’s life came up later that week, and it involved Wyatt, a karaoke bar, and several illegally consumed drinks.

The karaoke bar was Korean, so nobody had any idea how to read half the songs titles, but they still managed to find some bands they recognized. They rented a large, private room to celebrate finally getting back on the tour schedule, complete with couches, a small table, and huge fake plants strung up with white Christmas lights. The group was composed of London, the band, Eric, Mitch, and a miscellaneous assortment of other music techs and roadies. Together, they ignored the Korean subtitles and sang boisterously with half-remembered lyrics, the laughter growing louder and louder as the older members of the group started ordering drinks. At some point, a glass was pushed into Eric’s hands, and he swallowed it down without a second thought, and the nightmare began.

Drunken Eric was something like drugged Wyatt – emotional, irrational, and clumsy. He spilled quite a few of what he suspected were rum and Diet Cokes on the floor before London starting muttering about budgets and relocated him to a couch next to Wyatt. The redhead looked over at him and smiled tentatively.

Normally, Eric would have scowled or shied away or at least wished for a chastity belt, but in his newly intoxicated state, he inexplicably felt the intense urge to reconcile their differences. “Listen,” he said, and slid closer to fling a good-natured arm around Wyatt’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about the whole chair thing.”

“Uhh,” responded Wyatt, who was considerably less intoxicated than the younger man. “It’s okay, I guess,” he said, gaze flickering to back and forth from Eric to London with trepidation. “Can you please let go of me?”

“First time I’ve ever heard you say that,” Eric laughed, scooting closer. “No, listen. I’ve been thinking about what you said, and I’m sorry. You were just flirting and I overreacted, right? I’m a total douchebag.”

Wyatt’s eyes widened with every word until he looked rather like an awkward frog with red hair and thick glasses. He patted Eric’s arm stiffly and repeated, “It’s okay.”

“It’s not.” Feeling struck by sudden drama, Eric turned away and covered his face with his hands. “I should have been fired. I’m horrible.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Wyatt attempted to reassure him.

“I’m gonna worry about it anyway,” replied Eric, throwing himself sideways so that his head was on the armrest and his feet were across Wyatt’s lap. In the background, Mitch was caterwauling a terrible rendition of some pop song while London watched on in both horror and amusement.

Sparing a glance at the rest of the group, Wyatt leaned down to hiss at Eric, “Get up, you’re making a scene,” before he grabbed the smaller man by his shirt and hauled him back upright.

Eric’s expression sank. “You’re mad at me. You still hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” Wyatt said, looking taken aback. “What gave you that idea?”

Eric sank into the cushions and brooded rather magnificently. “You told me. While you were on Vicodin. Repeatedly.” His voice cracked on the last word and he quickly buried his face in his arms, embarrassed.

A smirk began curving Wyatt’s lips, and he raised both of his eyebrows nearly up to his hairline. “Okay, let me get this straight. You’re trusting something I said in a medication-induced haze over something I’m telling you now, sober?”

“Yes,” said Eric, and then stopped and thought about that and decided that didn’t make sense. “I mean, no. That would be stupid.”

“Yeah, it would,” Wyatt agreed with a smirk.

Eric looked on the verge of tears. “You think I’m stupid?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Wyatt sighed in exasperation. Rubbing a hand over his face, he pushed his glasses up and took a deep breath. “Listen to me. I don’t hate you, and I don’t think you’re stupid. And I’m sorry about all that flirting business from before. Okay?”

“Okay,” Eric agreed softly.

“Good talk.” Taking a moment to remove any and all drinks from Eric’s reach, Wyatt gave him a somewhat sympathetic look and said, “Do you think you can stop moping and enjoy the crappy Korean karaoke now?”

“I’m not moping,” Eric snapped, instantly uncurling from his defensive position and glaring at Wyatt for all he was worth. And then he seemed to realize what he was doing, because his expression crumpled gloomily and he said, “Sorry, I’m being a bitch again.”

“I believe bastard is the correct term,” Wyatt said, but he looked amused. “And it’s okay. It’s kind of funny, actually.”

“Funny,” Eric repeated with a grumpy face.

Wyatt nodded, grinning. “Funny.”

“I’ll show you funny,” Eric grumbled, and, feeling rejuvenated, staggered forward to steal Mitch’s microphone before he could butcher 80’s pop any further. “Sing with me.”

“Sure,” Wyatt said, and his grin turned smug.

Looking back, Eric figured he should have been a little more alarmed by Wyatt’s smug smile. In his drunken haze, Eric had not only forgotten that Wyatt was the fucking lead singer of a famous band – and more importantly, that he, Eric, could not sing worth shit. He also didn’t know the lyrics to any of his songs, but Wyatt, however, did.  So, not to be outdone, Eric took it upon himself to make them up.

Very. Bad. Idea.

It wasn’t so much the fact that Eric sounded like a dying cat and Wyatt was crooning as elegantly as he ever did, or even the fact that Eric was pulling lyrics out of his ass like a five-year-old and Wyatt had apparently memorized all the words to every song ever written, but more the fact that, well, Wyatt wasn’t drunk. And he seemed endlessly amused by Eric’s wobbly antics to the point of laughter so strong it nearly reduced the redhead to mirthful tears.

“Shut up,” the swaying blond hissed after his third failed song.  He somehow managed to muster up a glare, but the effect was quickly lost when he tried to sit back down, missed the couch, and clung to the nearest available object to prevent him from falling flat on his ass. Unfortunately, that object happened to be Wyatt’s arm.

The most intelligent thing Eric could think of to say was: “Erk.”

“Uh,” the musician said, staring at him. “What’re you doing?”

“Not falling,” he growled and jerked his arm away, which only led to him stumbling back into the couch. On the TV, the Korean subtitles were lighting up one-by-one as the words were supposed to be sung, making Eric blink in confusion. “What the hell are we doing here?”

“We’re having fun before we go to the hotel,” Wyatt pointed out with an ‘isn’t it obvious?’ look. He seemed very aware of the curious looks of the rest of the group, so he quickly passed off the mic they’d been sharing to James.

Naturally, James was sitting next to Fatty, and seeing Fatty made Eric surge forward again, bracing himself against the wall as he hobbled over to grab the drummer’s shoulder. “Fatty!” he declared.

With a borderline horrified expression, the other man turned to look at Eric and weakly greeted, “Hi?”

“You’re not fat,” Eric said with a surprisingly contrite face. He was really digging this whole reconciliation thing now that he was too inebriated to care. “I’m sorry I call you Fatty. I don’t even know why I do it. What do you want me to call you?”

“Cyrus would be nice?” he said tentatively, as though he were afraid Eric would change his mind and start screaming at him at any moment. He actually looked very much like he wanted the floor to cave in and save him from this rather awkward situation.

Wrinkling his nose, Eric released his shoulder and immediately fell into the wall. “I don’t like the name Cyrus.”

“Look,” the drummer said, casting a yearning look at James, who was singing softly into his mic, quite oblivious to the pain his bandmate was enduring. “You can call me Fatty if you want, okay? It really doesn’t bother me.”

“But you’re not fat,” Eric insisted.

“Then I’ll gain weight,” he said wildly as a last-ditch effort. “James, will you please make him sit down before he does something embarrassing?”

James, however, was not paying attention.

“Wyatt?” Fatty asked pleadingly.

With a sigh, Wyatt placed his hands on Eric’s shoulders and dutifully steered him back to a couch cushion. “Sit,” he ordered, and forced the blond onto the couch before he could protest. “Drink this,” he continued, and then he shoved a glass into Eric’s hands.

“No,” Eric moaned and pushed it away. “I already feel sick.”

Wyatt’s eyebrow twitched. “It’s water,” he elaborated.

“Oh.” Peering at the drink with considerably less distrust, Eric took a timid sniff before he gulped it down.

“Good,” Wyatt sighed in relief. His eyes sought out London’s where the band manager had situated himself against the door, and he silently mouthed, ‘It’s time to leave now.’ London just nodded and slipped outside to pay their bill.

 

* * *

 

Eric had previously been unaware of how many goddamn walls were in the hotel until he somehow managed to run into every single one. By the time he made it to the door of his room, his head ached (from the walls, not the alcohol) and his stomach felt like either the perfect storm or Hulk Hogan wrestling with Andre the Giant for the championship belt. Mitch had just succeeded in herding him upstairs to the rooms London had booked for the staff when the blond suddenly dug his heels into the ugly-patterned carpet and refused to budge.

“No,” Eric grunted, throwing his arms out to the side to grab onto the door frame. “I’m not sleeping in this shithole.”

“Eric,” Mitch said in a coaxing tone, all too aware of Eric’s drunken and volatile state. “You have to. Where else would you sleep?”

Eric pushed back at Mitch as hard as possible. “Anywhere but here.”

“What’s the problem?” London asked as he came up behind the pair. He took one look at Eric and sighed, rubbing his temples, and guessed, “Eric’s being difficult again?”

“You have no idea,” Mitch muttered. “How did he even get alcohol? He’s still a minor.”

Wincing, London said, “Yes, that was unfortunate. Hopefully none of this will get out to the press.”

“The press!” Eric crowed, sticking one arm straight up in the air, and crooked a finger in London’s direction. “That’s exactly it. If you don’t give me a decent bed to sleep in, I’m going to tell everyone you gave me booze.”

London scrubbed his face irritably. “I can’t believe I just walked into that.”

“Neither can I,” Mitch sighed. “Oh well.”

“I can,” Eric said in a sing-song voice.

“Look,” Mitch said, giving up on trying to force Eric into the room. “Cyrus and James are sharing, so why don’t we just lump him in with Wyatt for the night? It’ll be easier than trying to deal with him.”

Sensing that he’d won, Eric relaxed and released his hold on the doorway. “That’s the best idea ever. Why does Wyatt get his own room, anyway?”

“They rotate,” London explained absently as he took Eric by the elbow and lead him to the elevators down the hall. “I drew up a schedule before tour started. Let’s just get this over with before anybody sees us.”

The elevators dinged and Eric brightened. “So I don’t have to sleep in the crapshack?”

“It’s not a crapshack,” the manager muttered, half-dragging the uncooperative man into the elevators once they opened, and hit the button for the top floor. “This is a respectable hotel and all their rooms are quite adequate. And believe me, you’re never getting alcohol again.”

That suited Eric just fine. Beaming, he allowed London to continue leading him all the way to Wyatt’s room, and even hummed complacently as London searched for the keycard to let him in.

"Behave,” London warned him as the door shut, and Eric waved him off.

Pleased by the night and his two successful reconciliations, Eric toed off his shoes and slid into the bed closest to the door. He fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. 


	5. Chapter 5

Technically, the worst day of Eric's life didn’t really start until the morning _after_ karaoke. He awoke in a state of stupor, his head heavy and his mouth dry, and his eyelids felt disgustingly crusted together. He was fairly certain he couldn’t stand up without losing everything in his stomach, and the stretch to the bathroom seemed far too long, so he settled on curling on his side and moaning pitifully instead of attempting to move.

That was when he noticed a knee jabbing into his back.

After assessing the probability that it was merely a knee-shaped rock, the odds of which were depressingly low, he slowly opened his eyes to discover Wyatt asleep next to him.

“Holy shit.” He blinked twice, but the image didn’t go away. Wyatt was still splayed out on his back next to him on the double bed, one arm flung across his eyes and his mouth hanging open. With a cold stab of fear flipping in his gut, Eric slowly raised the blanket and looked under the covers.

They were both fully clothed. Thank God. Wyatt hadn’t gotten him drunk and lured him into bed to rape him.

However, the question remained: what the fuck was he doing in bed with Wyatt?

Remembering his cell phone, Eric checked his pocket and nearly groaned aloud when his phone wasn’t there. He bit his lip and looked around elsewhere, but it seemed to be nowhere else in the bed. If it was on Wyatt’s side or, heaven forbid, actually _underneath_ him, then Eric was leaving it for dead. As a last ditch attempt, he rolled closer to the edge of the bed to peer over the side and literally sagged with relief as he spied it on the floor.

If it had been out of his reach, he might have cried, but luckily it was well within range of picking up. Just as he was deliberating who would be the most helpful person to call in a situation as delicate as this, he heard a lethargic grumble beside him and nearly fell off the bed.

 _Shit_ , he thought, and turned to find Wyatt blinking at him with bleary eyes.

“Hi,” said Eric for lack of anything useful to say. His voice was raw and scratchy like a sixty-year-old man who smoked two packs a day.

For a moment, Wyatt froze in place, one hand in the air mid-stretch, and then all at once his eyes widened, his jaw dropped, and he sat up board straight. “Not that I’m not pleased to see you’ve finally given in, but I was sober when I got in bed last night and I distinctly remember your not being here. What the hell are you doing here?”

Eric groaned as Wyatt bounced the bed. “Unless you want me to throw up on you, I suggest _not_ moving right now.”

“Please just answer the question.”

“I don’t remember,” Eric said as his mind hazily tried to sift through the swirling memories from the night before. “I was put in here, I think.”

“Well, there’s another bed right over _there_!” Wyatt said, pointing rather emphatically at the undisturbed bed on the other side of the room.

“Oh, God,” Eric moaned, trying to sink into his pillow. “Please stop yelling, my head hurts.”

Frowning, Wyatt leaned forward to look at him and guessed, “Hang over?”

“If that means feeling like you’re going to vomit just by _breathing_ , then yes,” Eric mumbled as he threw his arm over his eyes. The previous night’s events were slowly filtering into his brain, and he choked down a humiliated whimper as he remembered demanding to sleep in one of the suites. With Wyatt, it seemed. He felt a little guilty for immediately assuming Wyatt had attempted to seduce him, but not much.

Wyatt stared at him for a moment before deciding, “I am going to make coffee and get London to take care of you, and then I am going to pretend this entire thing never happened.” He paused as he watched Eric’s face very carefully for a reaction. “Okay?”

Eric just nodded dumbly and curled into a fetal position, wishing he could stop feeling nauseous long enough that he could at least make it into the bathroom to pee. “Hurry?” he requested.

Snorting, Wyatt threw his legs over the bed and pushed himself into a standing position. “After my coffee.”

 

* * *

 

Much to Eric’s surprise, Andrew showed up at the Milwaukee show with a brilliant grin and a bounce in his step as he strode backstage to give Eric a bone-crushing hug.

“Drew,” he sputtered, staring at him in disbelief. “Why are you here?”

His twin gave him a confused look. “I told you I was visiting while you were in town. Remember?”

“No,” Eric said, shaking his head. “Not that I’m not glad to see you, but...”

“But…?” Andrew pressed, his bright blue eyes beginning to darken with something akin to annoyance. “I can’t believe you forgot.”

“Well.” Sheepishly, Eric rubbed the back of his neck and bit his lip, unsure of what else to say. “I’m sorry.” And then a thought struck him. “How did you even get back here?”

Andrew blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I _mean_ ,” Eric said, craning his neck around to look for the apparently shoddy security personnel, “that they’re supposed to stop you unless you have a pass.”

“I dunno,” Andrew replied with a shrug. “They just saw me and told me to go ahead.”

“Oh God,” Eric moaned with mounting horror as realization set in. He smacked his forehead with his palm. “They probably thought you were me.”

Andrew reached up to brush his fingertips through his considerably shorter hair and pulled a face. “What? We look totally different.”

“Not to the security dumbasses who only saw me for about five minutes.” Eric was about one second from a panic attack. What should he _do_? If anyone saw Andrew, it would be disastrous. Especially if the fangirls saw him.

Oh God, the fangirls.

“You have to hide,” he said, grabbing his twin by the shoulder and shoving him behind the nearest available object.

Unfortunately, Andrew was being less than cooperative. “What the hell?” he demanded, refusing to squat behind the speaker Eric was pushing him behind. “I’m not going to _hide_.”

“You have to,” Eric insisted. He could feel the terror curling around in his stomach, already spiraling out of control.

“Why?”

“You’re my _twin_ ,” he said, like that explained everything, and took Andrew by the arm. With the adrenaline fueling his system, he managed to manhandle his brother off to the dressing rooms, because if Andrew wouldn’t hide, then he was just going to have lock him away somewhere before anybody noticed him.

In retrospect, Eric thought it was probably cosmic karma that made London pop out of the very room he had planned on forcing Andrew into. After all, Eric had immorally conned London into giving him a job by sending his significantly more muscular brother to apply for a roadie position in Eric’s stead, and this was merely his divine retribution.

Divine retribution had never worn such nice shoes before.

London had been in the process of closing the door, his hand still on the handle, when he noticed Eric and Andrew standing in front of him. At first, he just stared, as though he were considering he was perhaps seeing double. Then, slowly, his gaze drifted back and forth, from Andrew to Eric, then back to Andrew again.

Slowly, he said to Andrew, “You’re the one from the interview.”

Andrew nodded guiltily and hung his head.

Appearing mildly dazed, London looked back to Eric. “I thought you looked a little scrawnier than I remembered when you showed up for your first day.”

Eric could see no way out of the situation. Cringing, he looked up at London through his bangs and asked, “You’re not gonna fire me, are you?”

For a horrifying moment, London seemed to seriously consider this option before he sighed and reached up to massage his temples. “No,” he said softly. “You’re more of a music tech than a roadie, so it doesn’t matter. Please just be honest from now on.”

The shuddering bundles of nerves in his chest abruptly dissipated in a sweep of relief. “Thank you,” he said in an uncharacteristically earnest tone. “I will, I promise.”

“Is there anything else I should know about you?” asked London.

“Um.” Eric snuck a glance at Andrew. “No.”

Nodding, London clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Good. Then get back to work.”

Watching London go, Eric slumped against Andrew’s shoulder and let out a huge sigh. “That was way too close.”

“So I don’t have to hide now?” Andrew asked hopefully.

Eric had a brief and horrifying mental image of the fangirls discovering his twin brother and shook his head vigorously. “No, you still do. Try to stay out of trouble.”

“That sounds so funny coming from you,” Andrew teased with a grin.

“I’m serious.”

Rolling his eyes, Andrew gave his brother a pat on the arm and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

           

* * *

 

Soon after, Andrew was essentially left to his own devices to stand around and enjoy the concert. While he enjoyed music as much as the next person, he wasn’t horribly familiar with the band – he’d come to the show more as a sign of family loyalty and support for Eric. All the other attendees seemed to be thrumming with excitement, bouncing in their seats or pressed up against each other in the open area in front of the stage.

Needless to say, when an exceedingly tall redhead who looked as bored as he did seated himself at the bar, Andrew was fairly surprised. Not only did the newcomer look kind of bored, but he looked borderline miserable to boot. Andrew was the type of guy who wanted to grow up to teach children with mental disabilities and give everybody lots of hugs, so he decided to slide down a few seats and strike up a conversation.

“You look kinda down,” Andrew said to him with a sympathetic smile.

Suddenly hunching, the other man gave him a trapped look before he stuttered out, “Sorry, I’m not interested.”

Andrew could only blink. “Not interested in what?”

“In, uh. You know.” He gestured suggestively. “I’m not gay.”

Andrew laughed, loud and short like it had been surprised out of him. “I didn’t say you were. It’s just—” he swept his arm to indicate the rest the concert venue they were in “—you look pretty miserable. Why are you even here?”

The trapped look remained in his eyes. “Because, um… I’m…”

Andrew looked at him expectantly. “What?”

“Family relation to the band,” he finally muttered, tossing his head back as he drained his glass. If it was alcoholic, Andrew worried for the state of his liver.

“Ahh,” Andrew said, nodding. “Yeah, my twin’s part of the staff.”

“Oh, really?” And that was apparently all it took to break the ice, because the taller man suddenly perked in his seat and offered his hand, big and clumsy like a puppy’s. “My name’s Avery. Who’re you?”

“Andrew,” he answered, grinning as they shook hands. “So, why do you look like you want to kill yourself?”

“Eh.” Avery glanced down at the bulky black watch on his wrist. “Missing a game. I’m kinda pissed.” Fiddling with his straw, he continued, “Music’s not really my thing, you know? But Wyatt would get his feelings hurt if he played a show in town and I didn’t come, so…” He trailed off with a shrug.

“I understand completely,” Andrew said, nodding. “That’s why I’m here, too. And it’s like there’s a secret conspiracy to schedule every concert during every good football game.”

“It’s bullshit!” Avery agreed and tossed his arms into the air angrily. “Wyatt’s going to be here _three days_ because it’s his hometown, but they’re only playing one show, and he let his manager schedule it the night of the game? Total crap. I think he’s a sadist.”

Leaning back a bit, Andrew tried to control his amusement at Avery’s over enthusiasm on the subject and settled for hiding his smile behind his cup of soda. “I didn’t know they were from here, since they live in California now.”

“Yeah,” Avery said with a disinterested shrug. “Wyatt was born here. Met James in high school. Then they moved to California to try to get signed and met Cyrus. Pretty boring stuff if you ask me.” Leaning forward in his seat, he tried to signal the bar tender for another drink. “Let’s talk about something more interesting. I’ll look up game stats on my phone.”

“An excellent idea,” Andrew said.

 

* * *

 

One night of bonding seemed to forge a lifelong friendship between Andrew and Avery. Much to Eric’s horror, the two took it upon themselves to drag both their respective brothers around Milwaukee on the friendly double date for hell for the duration of the band’s stay. Their final day in the city ended with the four of them at a music store while Wyatt examined every single guitar in the shop and Andrew pushed Eric onto a small black bench in front of a keyboard.

“Play something for me,” Andrew said.

“Drew,” Eric began exasperatedly, even as he subconsciously stepped on all the pedals and placed his fingers in C position. “I haven’t played in like a year. It’ll be embarrassing.”

“Oh, come on,” Andrew wheedled and nudged him encouragingly. “You wanted to be a concert pianist for like ten years. I’m sure you can remember how to play _something_.”

Yeah, ten years until he’d had to give it up. The crushing agony of abandoning music had been enough to keep him away from it until he’d finally gotten desperate and signed up as a guitar tech with the band. “I’d rather not.”

Wyatt, who had been absent-mindedly inspecting a nearby amp, suddenly perked and turned to Eric. “You wanted to be a pianist?”

“For a while,” Eric said vaguely, unwilling to get into something so personal with Wyatt.

 “Will you please just play something?” Andrew cut in, a soft, sincere tone coloring his voice. “I miss it. It’s too quiet when I go to Mom and Dad’s house.”

“Ugh.” Sparing a look at Wyatt, the blond warned, “Don’t make fun of me. It’s been a while.” He craned his neck to look around for Avery. “Your brother’s not listening, is he?”

“Nope.” Wyatt grinned, tossing his hair out of his eyes, and leaned his hip against the corner of the keyboard. “It’s just us.”

Andrew cleared his throat.

“Us and your brother,” Wyatt corrected.

Sighing with exasperation, Eric ultimately decided that one song couldn’t hurt, and made a large show of cracking his knuckles. Extremely thankful for muscle memory, he moved his fingers and pushed the pedals accordingly, his pale skin nearly blending with the white keys. He refused to look anywhere but straight ahead, his heart fluttering with nerves, and his face slowly turned red as he bumbled out a few mistakes.

After the fifth error, Eric pulled his hands away and scowled. “I think that’s enough.”

Instead of ridiculing him, Wyatt surprised him by nudging him aside and plopping down onto the tiny bench next to him. “Come on, let’s play a duet.”

Eric’s blush deepened. “I’d really rather not.”

“Please?” Andrew begged.

“No way,” Eric protested, but he could already feel his resolve weakening. Andrew had that kind of effect on him.

Emerging from a display of chimes, Avery ambled over to the scene and grunted. “If you’re going to do it, then hurry up. I’m hungry.”

“Come on, big guy, you can survive another ten minutes,” taunted Wyatt.

Avery rolled his shoulders and patted his stomach. “I’ll give you five, but then I’m leaving without you.”

“Fine,” Eric broke into the conversation, eager to get the ordeal over with. “Just pick something already.”

Looking contemplative, Wyatt bit his lip and scrunched his nose before suggesting, “Brahms?”

Eric did a quick mental check of every song he’d ever played at a recital. For years, he’d taken piano lessons at high, competitive levels. He was fairly sure that any song he’d memorized once could be at least partially recalled, especially with the support of Wyatt playing along. “Hungarian Dance?”

Wyatt scrunched his nose, hazel eyes rolling up toward the ceiling behind his glasses, appearing to be going over the same mental check Eric had just gone through. After a few beats of silence, he nodded, slid his hands into position on the keyboard, and said, “Ready when you are.”

 _Never_ , Eric thought to himself, feeling a nauseating lurch of performance anxiety in his stomach, the same sensation of frantic butterflies he’d gotten before every recital. But he would have rather not dealt with Avery’s temper, so he bit his lip, ducked his head, and forced himself to play.

Eric messed up. A lot. Wyatt, on the other hand, seemed to be playing pretty much flawlessly, although Eric couldn’t be sure – that had never been his half, and he was actually somewhat impressed that Wyatt had known which part to play. Either Wyatt had both halves memorized, or they were extremely lucky.

After what felt like either a few seconds or a few hours of Eric’s self-perceived bumbling and Wyatt’s sickeningly smooth playing, Avery reached over and hit the power button.

“Time’s up,” said the towering redhead. “I’m starving. I’m about ready to eat that guitar if we don’t leave soon.” He pointed to a random instrument hanging on the wall for effect.

Horrified, Wyatt hissed, “Avery, that’s a _Fender_! You can’t eat that!”

“Okay, then.” Always the sensible one, Andrew pulled Eric up from the bench and set him on his feet. “Let’s go.”

There were scattered mutters of agreement from the other three, and then they all filed out of the store, Wyatt giving the guitar section one last look of yearning before the little bell over the door tinkled and heralded his group was exiting.

Furtively, Eric also looked back, although his attention was on the piano through the glass window, the parting sight of which left him with a tiny pang of regret.


	6. Chapter 6

After that, time seemed to move like someone had hit the ‘fast forward’ button, and before Eric could even process what was happening, they were somewhere on the southern East coast, playing venues in towns Eric wasn’t quite familiar with. During what little free time he had, Eric busied himself by playing a sickening amount of Tetris, checking the forums and making horrible faces at the fanfiction, and exchanging text messages with Peter.

The latest one went like this:

_I think Lex is cheating on me._

For a moment, Eric just stared, his mouth open in shock. He read it again twice to make sure he wasn’t misinterpreting, then unceremoniously closed his DS, shoved it in the pocket of his red- and black-striped hoodie, and furiously thumbed the reply, _Are you fucking kidding?_

The phone buzzed in Eric’s hand a minute later. _No. Call me._

Peter was number three on speed dial after voicemail and Andrew. Eric hit it without hesitation and then waited the split-second it took for Peter to answer before he blurted, “What happened?”

Peter sounded furious and sad and confused all at once. “I don’t even know, Eric. He flirts with _everyone_ he sees. It’s like he’s a chronic flirt or something, like he can’t even _help_ it, or at least that’s what he said. But why would he be doing it if he weren’t expecting something to come of it? I mean, that’s how he landed me in the first place.”

Eric blinked hard and tried to concentrate on Peter’s lengthy rant. The more upset Peter became, the harder it was to understand him. Eric could tell he was on the verge of switching to Chinese, and that was when he was _really_ distressed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, gripping his phone tight against his ear, and wished again and again that Peter still lived in the states. He remembered Peter, small, scruffy-haired and vulnerable coming out to him in middle school, worried that they couldn’t be friends anymore. Eric had never had a body that one could honestly call intimidating, but he’d still done his best to defend his best friend with a sharp, caustic wit from anyone who disapproved. It was impossible to do that with Peter in England. And Eric missed him.

“Don’t be sorry,” Peter sighed. “Just tell me what you think. Am I overreacting?”

Eric paused thoughtfully before replying, “I probably would’ve reacted the same way.”

“So I _am_ overreacting.”

Eric let out a sharp, surprised laugh. Even in the throes of anger and depression, Peter still managed to be mocking. “I wouldn’t say that. Have you talked to him about it yet?”

There was a muffled noise on the other end. “Um, no,” Peter admitted, sounding sheepish.

“That’s probably a good start.”

“…Fine,” Peter yielded after a brief silence. “I’ll talk to him, but if I find out he’s cheating, I’m going to shave his head while he sleeps.”

 _That’s my boy_ , Eric thought, smirking. “Okay. Call me to let me know how it goes, okay?”

“I will,” Peter replied. He sounded considerably calmer, almost tired now after his extensive freak out. “Thanks, Eric.”

In a rare show of modesty, Eric waved it off and said, “Don’t worry about it. You listen to me bitch all the time, right?”

“Right,” laughed his friend. “How’s the incredibly gay tour going, by the way?”

“Incredibly gay tour?” Eric repeated dubiously. “When the hell did you start calling it that?”

“When I started reading the fanfiction.”

“You actually _read_ that crap?” he squawked.

“Not much of it,” said Peter. Eric imagined him smiling and rolling his shoulders in a little shrug, features lax and unconcerned now that he had something else to occupy his mind. “But I’ve gotta tell you, your popularity really went up after you nailed Wyatt—”

“I never had sex with Wyatt!” Eric burst out, too shocked to even allow Peter to finish that sentence. His heart was already jackhammering against his ribcage at the mere thought of what Peter had been about to say.

“I was _going_ to say after you nailed him with that chair, but your vehement denial intrigues me.”

Eric’s heart slowed but refused to resume its normal pace. His hands had begun to sweat a little. “There’s nothing to tell,” he said, and wondered why that felt like a lie. “Let’s get back to that part about the fans loving me.”

“For now,” Peter agreed. “But don’t think I’m going to forget about that. Especially given the way you act around him. That YouTube video was pretty incriminating.”

“That video was taken out of context,” he snapped.

“Oh reaaally,” Peter drawled. “How do you even know which one I’m talking about?”

Eric’s heart skipped a beat. “There’s more than one?”

“Uh, yeah,” Peter said with a frown in his voice. “Don’t you keep up on that stuff? I figured you’d want to stay informed about you and your boyfriend.”

“My boyfriend?” Eric echoed in confusion. “Which one? I mean,” he cringed, “not that I actually _have_ more than one.” He paused, and then continued awkwardly, “Or, you know, one at all.”

“Have you _ever_ had one of those?” Peter asked dryly.

“You would have known,” he lied, feeling the slick slide of guilt settling into the pit of his stomach. There had been a boy, once, at one of his parents’ giant New Year’s parties. Eric had been seventeen, illegally drinking champagne, and entirely unprepared for the son of his Dad’s business associate to kiss him at midnight. And after midnight. And then in his bedroom, with the lights off, and all manner of other things.

Eric had never told _anyone_ about that, and he never would.

“Too bad,” Peter replied and clucked his tongue. “Boys are nice when they’re not off potentially cheating on you with everything that breathes. Speaking of boys, I should eat lunch before I go over to Lex’s house and decapitate him.”

“I thought you were just going to shave his head?” Eric questioned in thinly veiled amusement.

“That, too.” Eric could practically _hear_ the smile in the other man’s voice. “I’ll just shave it after he’s dead. I might steal his wallet, too.”

“Or just stick to talking to him,” Eric suggested with a laugh.

“Right,” Peter said. “In that case, I’m gonna go now. Talk to you later?”

“Yup,” Eric agreed, smiling fondly. “Lemme know how the beheading goes, okay?”

“Will do,” Peter chirped, and they hung up.

Once Eric had stopped pacing the length of the parking lot, he replaced his phone in his pocket and pulled out his DS again to resume his game of Tetris. As he aligned the little colored blocks, he mentally arranged a way to get to Oxford that didn’t involve planes (since Eric _hated_ planes and the mere thought of boarding one made him break into a cold sweat) in case Lex did anything to hurt Peter. He’d be there for Peter no matter what.

 

* * *

 

“Eric,” Wyatt called out in an overly-pleasant tone as he approached him the next day.  “I’ve got a favor to ask.”

“Huh?” Eric asked, and made a face when a piece of hair fell into his mouth. He hadn’t had a haircut since before he’d moved away from his parents, and it was getting long. He spit it out and ignored the little disgusted expression Wyatt made, attempting to blow his hair out of his face, since his hands were otherwise occupied by hauling equipment. Sadly, he had no success, and he had to squint through his bangs as he said, “What do you need?”

Easily side-stepping the biting sarcastic response, Wyatt grabbed the double-bass Eric was perilously close to dropping and held it just out of reach. “How fast can you memorize sheet music?”

That was not the kind of question Eric had been expecting. “I dunno,” he said, too surprised to say anything but the truth. “It depends on how hard it is.”

It seemed that Wyatt had anticipated that response. Grinning, he gently placed the double-bass in its case, then pulled out a twice-folded pile of papers that had been bulging from his back pocket and handed it to Eric. “Can you look at this if you have some spare time?”

“Um,” said Eric, unable to summon a witty reply or the usual insult. “Okay?”

“Awesome!” Beaming at him, Wyatt clasped Eric’s shoulder and squeezed, the warmth seeping into his skin through his shirt. “Let me know what you think of it when you’re finished,” he said, and turned to leave.

Unfolding the papers, Eric saw that they were, predictably, sheet music. He glanced up at Wyatt’s retreating back and hesitated a moment. “Wait!” he called before the other man could get too far.

Wyatt stopped and looked over his shoulder, pushing his glasses up higher on his nose. “Yeah?”

Eric’s heart skipped a beat and he suddenly found it difficult to swallow. The music couldn’t possibly mean what he thought it did, but he had to be sure. It couldn’t hurt to ask. Forcing his pride aside, he held the papers between his hands and asked, “What’s this for?”

Wyatt snorted. “What do you _think_ it’s for?”

“A show?” Eric hedged hesitantly. At Wyatt’s disdainful gaze, he hurried to add, “For the band?”

“Obviously.”

His pulse pounded. He nearly pitched sideways onto the floor. He thought he might be sick.

It was kind of awesome.

“But why do you need me?” Eric asked, furrowing his eyebrows. “You already play piano for shows.”

“Rarely,” Wyatt said with a shrug. He seemed to resign himself to a prolonged conversation with Eric, because he took up a position leaning his shoulder against the brick wall of the building the truck was parked outside of. He settled for watching Eric continue to load and rearrange the truck, somehow managing to take five feet of equipment and make it take up half the space. Eric’s obsession with Tetris was fairly obvious, but at least it was useful. Sighing, he tilted his head to observe Eric scooting an amp around since he was too weak to lift it and continued, “I can’t play guitar and piano at the same time, though, and it would open up a lot of songs if we had a full-time pianist.”

 _Peter is going to be so jealous_ , Eric thought gleefully, and then tripped on a cord that had not been packed in its proper spot and nearly fell flat on his face. He reined himself in and smothered his smile. “I’ll think about it,” he said loftily.

Wyatt’s smug smirk said he knew Eric would do more than think about it. Pushing off from against the wall, he said, “I’ll leave you to it.”

“Thank you,” Eric said, squatting to properly wind the cord that had almost tripped him, and sent him a genuine smile.

They both knew he meant yes.

 

* * *

 

Unfortunately, once word of Eric’s invitation to the band reached London’s ears, the manager was less than pleased. He gathered them all on the band bus, which had become his proxy office, it seemed, and forced them all to sit in the lounge while he paced in front of them. It was a very familiar situation, but this time, it was everyone _except_ Eric who was in trouble.

Finally, once London had paced silently and angrily in front of them no less than ten times, he stopped and raked his hands through his dark hair, seeming at a loss. “Let me get this straight,” he said darkly. “Wyatt has asked Eric to be in the band.”

“Essentially,” Wyatt agreed.

“And Eric accepted,” London continued, seeming somewhat detached from his words, as though he could hardly believe them.

“Yes,” Eric said brightly. He was greatly enjoying the scene of someone else getting lectured for once. He had high hopes that London was going to flay Wyatt flesh from bone.

Sighing, London ran his hands through his already tousled hair again, then wiped his hands over his face. He peeked at James and Fatty through his fingers. “And you two agreed to this?” he asked in a high-pitched tone colored with disbelief.

James nodded.

“Wyatt said he was good,” Fatty explained.

London’s hands twitched. He pulled them away from his face and held them at either side of himself like claws. “And nobody asked _me_?”

“Apparently they don’t care about your opinion,” Eric supplied most unhelpfully.

London shot him a look like death.

“Don’t look at me,” said Eric, pointing to Wyatt. “It was his idea.”

Immediately, London’s death glare transferred to Wyatt, but Wyatt appeared unconcerned.

“I’m sorry,” the singer said, his voice smooth and calming, the first that Eric had ever heard it as such. “I got ahead of myself. London, would it be okay with you if I invited Eric to join the band?”

Folding his arms across his chest, London simply pursed his lips and said, “No. I don’t feel that one audience with you is enough to warrant placing him in the band. You’ve all had extensive practice, and Eric has absolutely no experience with stage performances. It’s a bad idea to add him in the middle of the tour.”

Sadly, Wyatt tsked and shook his head. “Then I guess I’ll have to fire you.”

London’s jaw dropped. Flustered, he took a moment to collect himself before he stuttered, “You can’t fire me! I’ve been with you all since you _started_ this band. I give good advice. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Wyatt rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I suppose I’ll have to quit this band and start a new one, then.” Grinning, he turned his head to James and Fatty. “Wanna be in it?”

“Of course,” James said, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips, and glanced sideways at Fatty. “Cyrus?”

“Can’t have a band with just a drummer,” Fatty pointed out. “I’ve got no choice.”

Eric raised his hand and held it pointedly in front of Wyatt’s face. “Hello, what about me?”

Wyatt pushed Eric’s hand away and rolled his eyes. “You can come, too.”

“This is absolutely ridiculous,” London said, his posture growing more rigid with each passing moment. He looked furious. “I refuse to humor your little games. We’re in the middle of a tour and you have an obligation to the fans to give them what you advertised.”

“Nobody said the new band couldn’t perform for them,” Wyatt said. “London, would you like to be our new manager?”

Narrowing his eyes, London stared at him for a full thirty seconds before the tense lines of his body melted away and he sagged where he stood. “I suppose,” he mumbled. “Please try to be more mature in the future and simply consult me before you make any more major decisions.”

“Of course,” Wyatt promise, appearing immensely pleased with himself.

In response, London merely gave him an admonishing look of irritation and a curt, “Thank you,” before he swept out of the bus.

After the ensuing awkward silence, Eric rocked back and forth on the couch cushion before something occurred to him. He perked immediately, unable to keep a diabolical smirk off his face. “Does this mean I can sleep on the band bus now?” he asked innocently.

“Absolutely not,” Wyatt said.

“There aren’t enough bunks,” Fatty chimed.

James simply bit his tongue and leaned against the wall to watch the drama that would inevitably unfold.

A hollow twinge echoed in Eric’s chest. Frowning, he balled his hands into fists at either side of him and said, “But there are empty bunks back there. I’ve seen them.”

“Uh.” Wyatt bit his lip as he searched for a plausible excuse. “Those are junk bunks. We put all our extra stuff there.”

“You can put it on the floor.”

“We only have one bathroom,” Wyatt insisted.

Eric crossed his arms much like London had, leaning forward with a menacing glare. “Let me make myself perfectly clear. If you don’t let me sleep on this wicked awesome bus instead of the crappy staff bus, I will make your life living hell and perfectly fuck up during shows. You won’t know when, you won’t know where, but I will, and it will be embarrassing.”

Wyatt looked away. “As long as you don’t sleep in my bed again,” he muttered.

“Wait a minute,” Fatty interjected, suddenly wide-eyed. He looked like he was grinning but trying desperately to hide it. “Eric slept in your bed?”

Covering his smile with one fine-boned hand, James added, “I had no idea you two were that intimate.”

Eric’s cheeks immediately flooded with warmth. Wyatt wasn’t immediately rushing to dispute the claim, and so the blush crept up Eric’s ears and down his neck. “He wishes,” he snapped, sneaking a glance at Wyatt, who was still looking the other way.

“I’ll bet he does,” Fatty said, looking positively gleeful with all the teasing possibilities.

Once again, Wyatt didn’t say anything, and Eric’s blush deepened.

“Well, this is awkward,” he declared, pushing himself out of his seat. “I’ll just be getting my things from the staff bus, then.”

“I’m sure you will,” Fatty said with a devilish gleam in his eyes.

When Eric looked at James for support, he was disheartened to find that the bassist’s expression matched Fatty’s almost perfectly.

“Erm, yes,” Eric said, and stumbled out the door.

 

* * *

 

Eric was so focused on not throwing up that he barely even registered his first show as a part of the band. Okay, that was a lie. A bold-faced lie. He was acutely aware of every face in the crowd, every light shining in his eyes, every bead of sweat rolling down his spine, and most especially the near-epileptic wave of camera flashes leaving spots swimming constantly in his vision.

But eventually, all of these things began to blend together, and when he looked down at his fingers pressed against the keys, he noticed with detached fascination that his skin was whiter than normal. He heavily suspected his face looked the same, an ashen kind of pale save for two high spots of color on his cheeks. He thought he probably looked feverish. Hell, he _felt_ a little feverish. He was half-hoping he had somehow contracted the flu so he could have a decent excuse for all the notes he had doubtlessly missed due to his traitorous, shaking hands, and for when he inevitably threw up all over the equipment.

He had just seriously begun contemplating sneaking off stage during the next song break when he heard Wyatt say, “Thank you. You’ve been great,” into the microphone, his voice amplified to ring in Eric’s ears, and Eric thought, _Oh, thank God, it’s over_.

It wasn’t until he was behind the curtain, basking next to an AC vent that he realized how truly disgusting he was. He was covered in sweat thanks to a triple threat of lights, musical exertion, and stomach-churning anxiety. He had never wanted a shower so badly before in his life. Or maybe a bath. And after that, he was going to sleep for ten hours. And then tomorrow, clean and well-rested, he would tell Wyatt exactly where he could stick his dumb ideas in the future.

 _But a shower comes first_ , Eric reminded himself, veering on unsteady legs toward the back door. But a strong arm around his shoulders stopped him, and he was swiveled around to look straight into Wyatt’s vibrant hazel eyes.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Wyatt asked, laughing. “We’ve still got to do the encore.”

Eric’s stomach dropped. “The encore?”

“Yup,” said Wyatt, pinning Eric to his side, and gestured grandly in the direction of the stage. “Just listen to them.”

Warily, Eric removed the ear plugs London had insisted he put in before the show, and the muffled roar in the background that Eric had assumed was permanent hearing damage transformed into applause and cheers. He immediately felt ill.

“I have to go back out there?” he asked waveringly. If he hadn’t been so preoccupied with the sick feeling in his gut, he might have been disturbed by the pathetic, pleading tone in his voice.

“That’s the general idea,” Wyatt said, giving him a sideways glance, and then did a double-take. He narrowed his eyes and leaned in close enough that Eric could feel his breath hitting his cheek. “Hey, are you okay?”

“No,” Eric replied, just as his knees gave out from nervous and he fell flat on his rump. He folded his arms on top of his knees and pillowed his face, groaning, “I’m gonna wait on the bus.”

Crouching next to him, Wyatt put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Okay, sure. Are you sick? I’ll get Mitch to help you.”

Eric fought down his pride and the instinctive, stubborn urge to decline and forced himself to nod. “Thanks,” he added weakly.

“Not a problem.” Wyatt patted his back with more force than was probably necessary for someone who had literally just fallen on their ass and pushed himself back to his feet.

Eric just grunted and focused on breathing, resting his forehead against his knees. His chest felt tight, tighter than normal excitement would allow, and his wrists were starting to ache from playing too much too fast without proper preparation. It was a relief when Mitch’s long, lumbering footsteps came to a stop next to him, accompanied by a sigh.

“You are so much trouble,” Mitch muttered, and, without even asking, hooked one arm under Eric’s armpit and the other under his legs and lifted him.

A lesser man might have squeaked. Normally, Eric would have screamed. But at that moment he felt too oddly detached from the situation to do much more than slump against Mitch’s shoulder, let Mitch carry him to the bus, and allow himself to be deposited on the couch.

 

* * *

 

“It was probably for the best,” James said later once the rest of the band had once again convene in the lounge. Eric was stretched out and taking up most of the couch, and justifiably so, he thought. Nobody had asked him to move, so he assumed everyone else agreed.

“What was?” Eric asked, more himself now that he absolutely refused to acknowledge his embarrassing display.

“Your coming back early,” James replied.

“Yeah, someone threw panties at me,” Wyatt cut in, smirking.

Fatty threw the TV remote at Wyatt’s head. “They did not. Stop scaring him.”

“Maybe I like it when girls throw panties at me,” Eric sniffed, although really he could think of nothing more terrifying.

James cleared his throat. “Be that as it may, I meant it was probably beneficial that Eric didn’t have to sign autographs after the show. The fans can be a little—”

“Ravenous,” Wyatt supplied.

“Nobody asked you,” Eric grumbled, burrowing into the crack between the cushions and the back of the couch. He picked up the remote from where it had landed next to him, nowhere near Wyatt’s giant head, undoubtedly inflated by his ego, and switched the channel to something more mind-numbing.

 Fatty glared. “I was watching that.”

Tucking the remote under his butt, somewhere he didn’t think Fatty would dare go – Wyatt maybe, but he didn’t seem to have any problems with infomercials, judging by his already glazed expression. “Too bad,” he said to Fatty, smirking. “It was my first show, so in celebration we’re going to watch what I want to watch and you’re not going to say a word.”

Fatty’s expression came very close to pouting. “I didn’t get special treatment after my first show.”

“It was everyone’s first show,” James pointed out. “And as I recall, you did get special treatment. We all did. I think we got drunk.”

Eric grunted and arched his hips to reach underneath him and turn up the volume. “I don’t think I need to remind you all that I’m underage.”

“Certainly not,” Wyatt said, the first sign he’d given that his brain hadn’t been sucked out by Debbie Meyer’s amazing _Green Bags_. “Good job tonight, by the way.”

Eric smiled without realizing it. Compliments were small things, and while he knew he’d made mistakes that night, he was also quite aware of how awesome he was. Still, it was nice to hear it sometimes.

“Thanks,” he said, and settled back to learn about how he could prolong the life of his fruits, vegetables, and cut flowers without the use of chemicals.


	7. Chapter 7

Eric had absolutely zero interest in the complicated process of hiring the new guitar tech to replace him. What with the fact that they were mid-tour and there were very limited time frames to interview candidates, he suspected that the search was going to be nothing short of hellacious. He’d figured that London, being the prudish control freak that he was, would have wanted to deal with it on his own.

He’d figured wrong.

“ _Eric_.” London’s voice held the tone that he always used when he was bitching as he rapped incessantly on the bathroom door. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Huddled on top of a toilet seat with his legs pulled up to his chest, Eric remained silent and hoped that London wouldn’t know he was there. How London had even thought to look here was beyond him. Someone must have ratted him out, and he didn’t even hesitate to assume that it had been Wyatt.

“Honestly,” London sighed, annoyed. “You’re the one who was complaining about having too much to do. At the very least, help pick out your replacement.”

Eric bit his lip and kept quiet. To be perfectly honest, he didn’t know why he was being so stubborn about this. The idea of someone new coming into their group and taking over all his duties tended to create a vast swell of uncomfortable heat and resentment. Rationally, he knew it was going to happen anyway, but that didn’t mean he was going to make things easy.

“If you don’t come out of there soon, I’m going to send James in after you,” London warned.

 _Oh, hell_ , Eric thought. While James appeared innocent, all freckles and friendly smiles, he somehow knew exactly what to say to cut people down to size. Five minutes with James and Eric would undoubtedly be rolling in guilt until he not only agreed to help with the interviewing process but also volunteered to take out the trash and wash all the dishes.

“Fine,” he muttered, uncurling from his protective position and unlocking the door. “But I reserve the right to be a sulky bitch.”

The door swung open on London rolling his eyes. “How is that different from your normal attitude?”

Biting down an irrationally caustic reply – probably along the lines of, ‘H _ow is that different from me punching you in the face_?’ – Eric pushed past him to stalk into their impromptu interview space.

It was actually just London’s hotel room, altered for their specific purpose. The rest of the band was already there, sitting in various swivel chairs stolen from other hotel rooms, all three of them crowded behind the desk they’d somehow managed to pull into the center of the room. It had most likely involved unbolting the furniture from the floor and a few other illegal pursuits, so Eric chose not to comment and instead threw himself down onto a swivel chair next to Fatty. The momentum kept him rolling past and left him solidly in between James and Wyatt.

Escorted by London came the first roadie candidate, a Mr. Miguel Martinez, whom Eric thought was perhaps a bit of a moron. He had a vapid expression and took an excruciatingly long time to answer every question. It swiftly became apparent that he had absolutely zero concrete musical knowledge and had only answered the audition due to a deep-seated, fanboyish hero worship of the band.

There were a few more applicants, all claiming adoration of the band, and all of whom Eric snorted at and dismissed almost immediately. When London gave him a questioning look, Eric merely shrugged. “We’re looking for an employee, not a fan,” he said.

London must have agreed, because he didn’t push the issue further.

More candidates came and went. The more time passed, the more Eric slumped in his chair and began to zone out. His fingers were twitching, playing an imaginary game of Tetris in his head, and he was just about to check out of the interview process completely when an interviewee finally made him sit up and take notice.

Simon Banks, as London’s list of Roadies-To-Be proclaimed, was pretty fucking awesome, as far as Eric was concerned. He was like a taller, non-Chinese version of Peter: wild dark hair and even darker eyes with a vintage T-shirt stretched across his shoulders, complete with cuffed jeans and a white belt.

“Well, he’s certainly as scrawny as Eric,” Wyatt drawled with an amused look.

Eric flipped him off. “I’m not scrawny, and neither is he.” Simon actually looked a lot stronger than he did, but he wasn’t about to admit that.

London shot both of them a disapproving glare and cleared his throat. “So, Simon,” he began diplomatically. “Tell us about yourself.”

“Well,” he said, cocking his hips aside and sticking his hands in his pockets, “I’m twenty-four. I rock the guitar and I work out. I like chemistry and music, annnd…” He clucked his tongue and looked thoughtful. “I dunno. I’m awesome.”

Nodding, London made a few notes on his clipboard (he’d written down _musical experience_ and _confident_ ), and continued with, “Why do you want this job?”

“Because I’d be awesome at it,” Simon answered easily, and London marked down _overuse of the word “awesome”_ , which made Eric snort and cover a grin.

Bestowing Eric with one of his typical censorious glares, London adjusted his sheet of paper before asking, “Okay, then. On a scale of one to ten, how much do you want this job?”

Simon smirked. “Is this a test for an appropriate Spinal Tap reference?”

“Ah, no,” London said, looking uncomfortable. “It’s just a regular test.”

“Okay. Ten, then.”

“Good answer,” London replied, nodding.

Before the band manager could get out another question, Wyatt quickly leaned forward and asked with a grin, “Can you carry a subwoofer?”

“Not that it’s necessary,” Eric butted in before Simon could respond. “I’m pretty sure normal people can’t carry those. They’re gigantic.”

“And by ‘normal people’ you mean ‘small and delicate’ like you, right?” Wyatt looked smug. “Because Mitch can.”

With an amused glance in their direction, the roadie candidate paused for a moment before answering, “I have no idea how big a subwoofer actually is, but yes. Definitely. Because I have physics on my side.”

“I thought you liked chemistry,” Eric muttered, suddenly remembering his role as a sulky bitch.

“I like science in general,” Simon said with a shrug. “I’m basically a genius.”

London gave him a calculating look before writing down, _perhaps_ overly _confident_.

And thus began the series of pointless questions.

“How do you feel about Skittles?” Wyatt wanted to know.

Wrinkling his nose, Simon gave him an appalled look and said, “Have you looked at the ingredients? I don’t exactly want all those chemicals in my body.”

Wyatt pursed his lips, appearing rather sour, and had just opened his mouth to retort when Fatty leaned forward to ask, “Do I look fat to you?”

Simon blinked. “Uh. No?”

With a pleased expression, Fatty leaned back in his chair and looked at Eric in triumph. “See. I’m not fat.”

“Shut up, Fatty.”

James hid his curling smile behind his hand as he murmured, “Are you a fan?”

Simon couldn’t have looked more amused if he’d tried. His mouth was curved in a broad smile, showing a hint of teeth, and his eyebrows were raised nearly to his hairline. He tilted his head at James and asked, “Of what?”

“The band.”

“Oh.” Simon let out a loud sigh that didn’t match his gleeful expression and rolled his eyes back to examine the ceiling. “You’re too famous for me right now. I liked you back when you were underground.”

At that, London heaved a sigh and gave up all hope of a normal interview, and tossed his clipboard aside, relaxing in his chair to watch the chaos unfold. Eric observed this with a mounting sense of approval. Honestly, he didn’t know why London ever tried to even pretend like he had control over the band.

“Would you ever consider getting completely plastered and sneaking into my bed in the middle of the night?” Wyatt asked with a hint of laughter.

Eric’s thoughts derailed abruptly. Turning, he shoved Wyatt’s shoulder, nearly uprooting him from his chair. “Don’t even! You’re the one who gave alcohol to a minor, remember? Totally not my fault.”

The sound of Simon’s laughter cut off any further discussion of the subject. He was biting his lip, glancing around the room as he laughed to himself. “This is a real interview, right? I’m not secretly being filmed for a TV show?”

“Sadly, no,” London said with a sigh. “This is how they really act.”

“Cool.” Simon grinned radiantly. “So, can you hire me now?”

London sat up straighter to shuffle through his papers and his nearly non-existent notes. Eric could tell he was gearing up to say something terribly cliché like, ‘ _We’ll call you after we’re done interviewing all the candidates_ ,’ so he raised his hand and blurted, “Yes.”

Staring at him in part horror, part surprise, London ventured weakly, “He’s only our second interview.”

Eric crossed his arms stubbornly. “He’s _my_ replacement, and he looks like Peter, so I say he gets the job.”

Wyatt’s attention snapped to him faster than Eric had even thought possible. “Who is Peter?” he demanded. His voice was rough and louder than usual, tinged with what Eric suspected was undeniably jealousy.

“None of your business,” Eric said, flushing. He wasn’t about to start sharing personal details with Wyatt any time soon. Turning back to Simon, he summoned a small smile and said, “Mitch always takes care of the subwoofer, so don’t worry about it, and even _he_ uses the dolly. Also, I’ve been steadily filing down Wyatt’s strings on that crappy-looking acoustic, so be careful tuning that.”

Wyatt’s jaw dropped. “You _what_?”

Eric bit his lip to keep from smiling and forced himself to continue in face of the hilarious yet evil lie he’d just told. “Also, the staff bus is absolute shit, so don’t be afraid to sneak onto the band bus for snacks and stuff. We have toaster strudels.”

“Okay,” London said, bringing the conversation to a forceful end. “I think that’s enough for right now. Thank you, Eric.”

“No problem,” he said with a smug smile, and pointedly ignored the death glare Wyatt was trying to burn through his skull.

“Unfortunately,” London began in the tone that meant he was about to ruin Eric’s plans, “we still have to finish interviewing the other applicants.”

“But I already picked,” Eric complained.

London looked tired, which always made him seem older than he really was. His gray eyes were dim, and he wiped a hand over his face as he appeared to collect his thoughts. “Look, Eric, while I would really like to explain equal opportunity and potential lawsuits to you, we don’t quite have the time, so if you would just let me do my job, I would really appreciate it.”

Eric took a moment to stare, open-mouthed, before the blush set in over his cheeks and ears. Getting your ass handed to you was never particularly enjoyable, and to say he was embarrassed would be an understatement. “Fine,” he said, crossing his arms, and hunched his shoulders up toward his ears.

London had the gall to look somewhat surprised by Eric’s reaction. “Thank you,” he murmured, then made a gracious motion in Simon’s direction. “Thank you, too, Simon. If you’d be so kind as to show in the next candidate?”

“Sure,” Simon said, his confident megawatt grin unwavering as he waved and turned to leave the room.

Other interviews be damned. Eric knew he’d see Simon again before the day was out.

 

* * *

 

And he did. As it turned out, along with being a cocky asshole, Simon was also quite good at his job. Somewhere underneath all that trendy hair, he actually had the muscle required to move the subwoofer, for which Mitch seemed eternally grateful. To be honest, Eric was kind of jealous the other roadies liked Simon so much, but mostly he was just glad he didn’t have to haul around Wyatt’s shit anymore. Simon asked which guitar, exactly, Eric had been filing down, but Eric didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d been lying.

He didn’t tell Wyatt, either. He’d assumed it was too heinous to even possibly true. But apparently Eric was either the best liar in the world, or really did come off as a giant douchenozzle, or maybe both, because Wyatt confronted Eric the first chance he got.

“Snapping strings really hurts, you know,” Wyatt hissed as he accosted Eric by the vending machine at the next rest stop.

“So?” Eric muttered, absently punching in the numbers for a candy bar.

“A _lot_ ,” Wyatt elaborated with a frown.

Rolling his eyes, Eric reached down to retrieve his junk food and began unwrapping it on the spot, tossing Wyatt a callous glare. “Look, I know you think you’re hot shit and all, but I don’t really care. You could probably use a snapped string to rein in your ego.”

“My ego?” Wyatt sputtered. “What about you? Maybe if you could stop being an immature brat long enough, you could see that you’ve got the biggest ego out of all of us.”

Eric chewed on his candy bar thoughtfully. “Except Simon. But I think it’s probably justified.”

Wyatt frowned. “Are you saying my ego isn't justified?”

“Well, yeah.” He grinned and arched an eyebrow. “What, were you under the delusion that it was?”

“I'm a rockstar,” Wyatt replied flatly. “Of course it's fucking justified.”

Eric just looked at him. “Simon says he’s a genius. And he’s hot, so he wins by default.” He paused to take another bite and chew it thoroughly. “Besides, I’m a rockstar now, too, so I guess we’re all justified.”

Wyatt missed the point entirely. “Did you just call Simon hot?”

“Anyone with eyes would call Simon hot,” Eric said, squinting at Wyatt’s odd, half-bewildered expression, and began smirking. “Why, are you jealous?”

Wyatt looked away. “Absolutely not.”

“Good to know.” Shoving the rest of his candy bar in his mouth, Eric crumpled his wrapper into a ball and dropped it unceremoniously into Wyatt’s hands. “Take care of that for me, will you?” he mumbled around the mass of chocolate in his mouth.

“Uh.” Wyatt glanced down at the trash, and then back up at Eric, apparently still too weirded out by Eric’s declaration of Simon’s hotness to protest.

“Thanks,” Eric said, still chewing, and almost laughed as he patted Wyatt’s shoulder and sauntered back toward the bus. A jealous Wyatt was a quiet Wyatt, it seemed. Or at least an avoidant one. That was interesting.

 

* * *

 

Hotels were always a nice change of pace. First of all, they sure beat the hell out of the motion sickness that sometimes accompanied sleeping in a moving vehicle. Secondly, it meant getting a bigger bed, which was a vast improvement over the cramped bunk on the bus. However, none of these things were worth rooming with Wyatt.

“What the hell?” Eric groused as he was handed his card key by a ruffled-looking London. “Why can’t I share with James, or Fatty?”

London’s eyes narrowed. “Because you shared with James last time, and, as I’ve told you before, we _rotate_.”

Eric glared. “You never told me that.”

“Oh,” London said, looking confused momentarily before a figurative light bulb went off and he was hit with realization. “That’s right. You were drunk.”

“Fabulous,” he snorted. Stuffing the key card into his jeans pocket with an air of supreme irritation, he tapped his foot and drawled, “Did anything _else_ happen while I was drunk that I should know about?”

“Lots of things happened,” Wyatt joked as he swept past them to obtain his key from their manager, winking at Eric as he did so. “Actually, I’m kind of hurt you don’t remember.”

“You see?” Gesturing emphatically between Wyatt and himself, Eric raised his eyebrows at London and declared, “This is why we can’t room together. I don’t trust him.”

“It’s true that I’m a bit of a snuggler,” Wyatt said, grinning. “And I do tend to have wandering hands.”

Eric shuddered dramatically and looked imploringly at London. “Please save me,” he begged. “Let me room with someone who won’t threaten my manly virtue.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” London admonished. “It’s one night. Wyatt is a perfect gentleman.”

“Except for when he’s mad with envy,” Eric pointed out, feeling the beginnings of a smirk as Wyatt’s cheeks swiftly turned pink.

“Mad with envy?” London echoed curiously.

“Oh, yes, it seems he’s quite jealous of Simon,” Eric said, his expression brightening. He looked at Wyatt with bright eyes and thought that he finally understood why Wyatt teased him all the time. It was fun. “I said Simon was hot and now Wyatt is all bothered by it.”

“If I’m bothered by anything, then it’s your taste in men.” Jamming the key card into his back pocket, Wyatt threw Eric a look through his bangs that looked more embarrassed than disgruntled. “I’ll be at the bar if you need me.”

“Not planning on it,” Eric crooned sweetly to Wyatt’s back as Wyatt began ambling away.

He had other ideas.

 

* * *

 

 “Eric,” Wyatt’s voice rumbled through the hotel door no less than an hour later. “What the hell is this?”

Inside, Eric had flopped face down on the bed, his face buried in a pillow. He was bundled up in just the sheet, the comforter lying in a graceless heap on the floor. He hadn’t used a hotel comforter ever since he’d seen a news report where they’d used a blacklight on one.

Groaning, he made the large effort to roll onto his back, blinking blearily at the door Wyatt was supposedly trying to enter. And couldn’t. Because Eric had fastened the security chain. “I refuse to room with you.”

“You’ll have to speak louder,” Wyatt said. “I can’t hear you because there’s a _door_ in my face.”

“I _said_ ,” he yelled, “that I refuse to room with you!”

Wyatt’s sigh was noisy and angry enough to be heard through the door. “At least have the decency to talk to me face to face.”

Eric sat up slowly, listening to his back pop as he did so, and silently contemplated the door. On one hand, he could keep Wyatt out there all night. If he’d been drinking, he’d probably make a huge ruckus and get London, but Eric was perfectly prepared to stuff cotton in his ears and sleep through it.

But on the other hand, London was smart enough to get the hotel manager, and then Eric would probably be in trouble.

“Okay,” he mumbled, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, and paused long enough to stretch and get a few more good pops out of his back. He tottered unevenly over to the door and squinted through the peephole, where Wyatt was making a pirate face right back at him. Or maybe just at the door in general.

“I’ll open the door,” Eric said, putting his hand over the security chain. “But you’re not coming in. We’re going to talk, and then you’re going to go sleep somewhere else.”

“Fine.”

Cautiously, Eric slid the chain over, letting it dangle for a moment before he said, “Okay. It’s open.”

There was a moment where neither one of them moved. Eric waited, straining his ears for the sound of Wyatt’s shoes on the carpet, the rustle of his shirt as he extended his arm, and bit his lip when there was nothing. Clearing his throat, he reached for the handle again and said, “Okay, I guess I’ll open it.”

The silence yielded to too much movement.

Wyatt pushed the door open at the exact same time Eric curled his fingers around the handle. Looking down, Eric saw Wyatt’s feet appear in the threshold. He’d automatically moved to make room when the door had swung, but now he mechanically pushed back _hard_ , unwilling to budge on the subject of Wyatt entering the room.

And then there was a thunk, and a sharp inhale of breath, and then a lot of swearing.

“Fuck,” Wyatt hissed. “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Eric ripped open the door without a second thought. If this was a clever rouse by Wyatt to get back inside, then it was a good one, because he genuinely sounded hurt. Wyatt was standing in front of the door with his hands covering his nose, his eyes squeezed shut, his body bent slightly over. Eric barely had to give him another glance before common sense took over and he put a hand on Wyatt’s shoulder, guiding him into the room and to the bathroom sink.

Wyatt continued to swear, muffled and somewhat hindered by the blood leaking into his mouth. He stood d at the mirror and watched himself through horridly crooked glasses, blood dripping between his fingertips. He looked miserable.

That was when Eric started to feel guilty.

“Um, hey,” he said, picking up a nearby hand towel and offering it to Wyatt. “I didn’t mean to hit you. And I was kind of kidding about sharing a room with you. I’m okay with it, as long as London gets me a chastity belt.” Wyatt gave him a pain-weakened glare. Eric ignored it. “Are you okay? God, you’re bleeding everywhere. You’re not anemic, are you?”

“Doh,” Wyatt said unintelligibly, glowering at Eric’s reflection in the mirror. “I thwear to Cod, if it’d broked, Lundun ith goink to fire your ath on the thpot.”

Eric blinked. “Beg pardon?”

Snuffling, Wyatt finally pulled his hands away and took the towel, quickly applying it to his nose with one hand. He sat on the toilet lid and tilted his head back, eyes closed. “I thaid, if it’d broked, Lundun ith—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eric said, making shh-ing gestures with his hands.   
 “I should have known it wasn’t going to be any more coherent the second time around.”

Wyatt pulled the towel away and sniffled again. “Juth get Lundun.”

“Sure thing,” Eric said, and somehow remembered to grab his keycard before he left the room.

After much wandering, he found London in the hotel lobby with a date book on his lap. The manager looked up at him with wary gray eyes before venturing out with a hesitant, “Yes, Eric?”

“Wyatt’s face is broken,” he said bluntly as he claimed the chair next to him.

London pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “And how exactly did this happen?”

“I hit him with the door,” Eric interjected, and then added as an after-thought, “It was totally an accident.”

London’s datebook closed with a snap. Once he regained his composure, he opened his eyes, stood and brushed off his pants. “Well, then. I’ll go get the first aid kit.” He graced Eric with a firm, almost fatherly look and said, “You can stay with Simon in one of the staff rooms.”

 “Okay,” he agreed, nodding, and stood with his chips and drink to leave. “Do I get a new keycard?”

“No,” London said, beginning to smile. “I don’t entirely believe that it was an accident. You’re at Simon’s mercy, I’m afraid. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Eric’s jaw dropped. “But—”

“No buts,” London said. Tucking his datebook underneath his arm, he gave Eric an incongruously cheerful wave and started walking away. “He’s in 204. Good luck.”

 

* * *

 

Simon, as it turned out, never. Fucking. Slept.

“Are you an insomniac or something?” Eric groaned at around two am, at which point Simon still had a desk lamp on as he worked on creating a tower out of the mint-flavored toothpicks he’d stolen from a maid’s housekeeping cart.

“Yep,” Simon replied cheerily, somehow smiling at him without ever turning his head. His concentration was almost solely devoted to the south-east turret of his castle. “Didn’t London tell you? I had to room with him once.”

Eric could feel his eyebrow starting to twitch. “He must have left that part out.”

Simon hummed and nodded, grabbing a fake sugar packet and ripping it open, and sprinkled it on his newly-constructed tower as faux snow. “He must be pissed, then.” A pause. “Or maybe it’s a reward, ‘cause I’m so awesome.”

Eric pulled the covers up over his head. “No. It’s definitely a punishment. Are you ever going to turn the fucking light off?”

“Nope,” Simon replied without missing a beat. “I need it on to see what I’m doing, unless you’d like me to entertain myself by watching TV.”

“No,” Eric groaned. “That would be even worse. Why are you such a freak?”

“You mean why am I an insomniac?” There was a contemplative pause. “I figure it was the universe’s way of giving me extra time to demonstrate my genius.”

“I didn’t even know it was possible to be this arrogant.”

“Well, now you do.”

“Please,” Eric whined to his sympathetic pillow. “Just turn the goddamn light off so I can _sleep_.”

Simon snorted.  “If you close your eyes, it will be dark.”

Eric grunted something, suddenly distracted by his phone vibrating in his pants on the floor. Reaching his skinny arm out from under the blankets and over the edge of the bed, he fumbled it out of the pants pocket and checked the screen.

It was from Peter.

 

_Now that you’re famous, can I have free tickets to your England shows?_

Staring at the screen in horror, Eric abruptly threw off the covers, rolled out of bed, and stalked over to the table Simon was occupying. “Are we touring in England?” he asked in a barely controlled voice.

Simon blinked at him. “Well, yeah. Japan, too.” He squinted. “Are you sure you’re part of the band? Because you seem pretty clueless.”

The familiar yet unwelcome sensation of panic set in. His chest tightened, his palms started to sweat, and he suddenly found it hard to breathe. “I have to go talk to London,” he said, and spun on his heel to leave the room, still in his matching striped pajama ensemble, and walked right down the hallway to the band manager’s room.

“London.” He rapped on the door importantly. “London, we have to talk.”

The band manager, of course, did not respond, because like every other sane person in the hotel, he was _asleep_. So Eric knocked louder, and louder, until he was banging his entire fist against it, and London opened the door in a bathrobe and slippers.

“What is it?” he asked in a miraculously controlled voice.

“I can’t go to England,” he said, his voice high-pitched and tinged with desperation.

“What do you mean, you can’t go?” asked the manager, somehow managing to look sophisticated and unrumpled in his ridiculous outfit, even after being dragged from his bed by Eric’s desperate raging.

“Planes,” he half-sputtered. “I hate planes.”

London frowned in confusion. “What’s wrong with planes?”

Eric began waving his arms in large, expressive gestures. “They’re dangerous. I hate them. We could all die!”

London began massaging his temples.  “Eric. It’s almost three in the morning, and I don’t have the patience for your crazy rambling right now. So please, go back to bed and let me sleep.”

“Let _you_ sleep,” Eric spat. “You’re the one who roomed me with a madman. Do you know what he’s doing? He’s building a castle on the hotel desk. I’m never going to get to sleep.”

“I roomed you with Wyatt, but then you hit him in the face with a door,” London said, narrowing his eyes.

Eric deflated a little. “I didn’t mean to hit him,” he insisted with a pout. “Look, can’t we just drive to England or something?”

London gave him a pointed look. “Drive,” he repeated flatly. “Across the ocean.”

Eric was beginning to feel very, very stupid, and he was beginning to deeply regret ever waking London. “Fine,” he snapped, flushed and embarrassed, and turned away. “We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

London silently shut his door in reply.

Eric made to return to bed, but he stopped in front of his door, frowning at the yellow light creeping out from underneath it. There was no way he was going to continue subjecting himself to Simon’s arts and crafts of doom for the rest of the night. He needed sleep.

And then he remembered he still had the keycard to Wyatt’s room. It was in the same pocket in which he’d found his phone, but that wasn’t much of an obstacle. Simon would probably be too busy making a drawbridge or something to notice Eric sneaking around the hotel room.

Or so he had thought, anyway. He’d just picked up his jeans and was rifling around the back pocket when Simon suddenly appeared behind him and nearly gave him a heart attack as he asked, “What’re you doing?”

“Um,” Eric said, turning around to face him. “Getting some change. For the vending machine.” He pointed weakly toward the door.

“Oh, good!” Brightening, Simon pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and rummaged around until he found a dollar bill. “Can you get me something, too?”

“No,” Eric blurted, far too quickly, and then quickly followed up his statement with, “I don’t think you need anything else caffeinated. Or sugary.”

“Oh.” Simon looked disappointed, but he dutifully replaced the money in his wallet. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Yeah,” he echoed. Utterly relieved, Eric flashed him a pained but hopefully sincere-looking smile and began scooting toward the door. “I might also get some ice or something. So. Don’t wait up for me.”

Arching an eyebrow, Simon glanced at his toothpick castle, then back at Eric, and drawled, “Yeah, I’ll try not to fall asleep without you.”

Eric let out a faint laugh, nodding again before he escaped into the hallway, still clutching his jeans in his hand. That had been a little too close. He’d have to be a hell of a lot sneakier than that to not wake up Wyatt.

“Oh, God,” he suddenly said aloud as he imagined that particular situation. If Wyatt caught him sneaking into the room, it would _not_ be fun. For anyone. He definitely had to be careful.

Wyatt’s room was up a few floors, so he made his way to the elevators and hoped that nobody saw him. He suspected that it probably it looked quite scandalous to skulk around a hotel at three in the morning. Especially carrying a pair of dirty pants. In his pajamas.

Luckily, he crept into Wyatt’s room without incident, and he groped blindly along the walls until he found a bed. The lights were off, the curtains shut, and Eric feared waking Wyatt if he dared to turn on the lamp, so he lifted the edge of the closet blanket and silently slid underneath. In the blissful silence, he fell asleep almost immediately, pants still clutched in his hand.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, Eric awoke rather suddenly to Wyatt dumping a bucket of ice on his face. Sputtering at the sudden sensation to thoughts of _cold_ and _ow_ and _what the fuck_ , he looked around wildly, flailing his arms. Wyatt was staring at him.

“You’re not drunk,” Wyatt said with a touch of amazement.

Eric had no idea what the hell he was talking about. “Huh?”

Setting the bucket down, Wyatt eyed him with an expression that was turning quickly, dangerously smug. “If you’re not drunk,” he said slowly, with a spark of vengeance in his eyes, “then why are you in my bed?”

Still trying to blink away the sudden shock of morning, Eric gave him a dazed look and finally found the intelligence to say, “Simon.”

“Simon,” Wyatt echoed suspiciously. “What does he have to do with this?”

“He’s crazy,” Eric mumbled, brushing ice cubes off his lap, unsure of how else to explain Simon’s Arts and Crafts of Doom (now deserving of their very own capital letters). He was shivering.

Wyatt glared a little. “You almost broke my nose.”

Wincing, Eric took the time to search Wyatt’s face – his nose was dark and bruised, but blessedly not crooked. Or bleeding profusely. It looked painful, but not unbearable. “You look better.”

“A little,” Wyatt admitted. “Just try not to injure me any more before tonight’s show.  London's taking me shopping for makeup in like fifteen minutes.”

Before he could stop himself, Eric snorted, then giggled, and then covered his mouth in horror.

“That’s really mature,” Wyatt muttered, flushing. He flipped him off. “We’re buying concealer so I don’t look like an abuse victim. It’s not funny.”

“It is a little,” Eric said, biting his lip to keep from grinning.

“It’s not at _all_ ,” said Wyatt, but he still cracked a smile at the sight of Eric’s barely contained amusement.

“Okay, it’s not funny,” Eric agreed, still smirking, and then a shiver effectively derailed his train of thought. “Now how about a towel? That ice bucket was totally unnecessary.”

“Get your own towel,” Wyatt said. “I’ve got a Mary Kay appointment.”

 

* * *

Later that day, Eric received another text from Peter concerning the show in England, and he freaked out all over again. He hid in his bunk with the covers pulled over his head like a hood and stared unblinkingly at the wall. He wasn’t going, and that was that. If anybody tried to make him, he would just hide here all day, and nobody would ever find him, and they could just not play songs with the keyboard, and--

“Eric?” James whispered, moving the blanket aside with gentle hands. “Are you all right?”

“No, I am _not_ all right, and I would appreciate it if you all just left me alone,” Eric replied, somewhat shakily. It probably hadn’t been the most convincing response, but Eric really couldn't have cared less, because his chest was tight at the mere thought of flying, and he was going to start hyperventilating if James kept talking about it.

Humming thoughtfully, James sat down next to him on the bunk and patted his shoulder. “You know, I'd do that, but London mentioned something about a plane phobia, and I thought perhaps you would like to talk about it.”

Sometimes James could be so sickeningly nice it was hard to believe. And right now, it was most definitely not appreciated. “No,” he muttered, resisting the urge to rock back and forth in a panicky rhythm. “What I would _like_ is for us to just take a damn boat to Europe or something.”

James chuckled, eyes crinkling, and said, “Sorry, but I don’t think that would work. Although, I think you should know that we have something for you.” He paused. “For the plane, I mean.”

“Oh?” Eric drawled. “Is it a gun to shoot myself with? Because I’m going to die on that thing anyway, so I might as well get it over with.”

“Nope, not quite.” Reaching into the depths of his front pocket, James pulled out a small orange bottle with a white cap. He shook it and smiled encouragingly. “Sedation pills.”

Eric glared. “What do you guys think I am, a horse or something? You don’t have to tranquilize me.”

James shrugged. “Well, they’re here when you need them, if you happen to change your mind.”

Curiosity overtook Eric’s panic for a moment as he leaned forward and asked, “Where did you even get those, anyway?” He squinted. “You’re not a part-time drug dealer, are you?”

“No,” replied James with an amused look. “London explained the situation and got a prescription for you. He can be quite convincing when he needs to be, and being famous always helps.”

And just like that, Eric’s moment of lucidity was gone. The word _London_ promptly sent his mind to thinking about the tour and England. He was suddenly thinking about the nauseating sensation in his stomach as a plane took off, the shaky terror of turbulence, the overwhelming feeling that something bad was going to happen.

“Calm down,” James soothed, placing his hand on Eric’s back, but Eric shook him off violently.

“Don’t,” he hissed, curling into a fetal position underneath his blanket. Was that a good position to be in when a plane was crashing? Would it help at all? He hoped that the plane crashed in the ocean – at least he could grab onto his seat cushion and have a better chance of surviving, waiting for a rescue boat in cold, undulating waves, rather than crashing into—

“Okay, then,” James interrupted his panicked train of thought, pushing himself off the bunk. “I think you need a distraction,” he murmured, and then disappeared to another area of the bus.

Eric didn’t understand what he meant until Wyatt appeared in the doorway looking incongruently pleasant compared to Eric's panicked mood.

“What are you doing here?”

“James asked me to come in here,” Wyatt said, gingerly seating himself on the edge of Eric's mattress, and gave him a small smile. “He said you were freaking out or something.”

“Oh, yeah?” Eric jutted out his chin and glared. “And what are you going to do about it? Here to tell me how planes are perfectly safe? Because you will never, ever change my mind.”

“Nope,” Wyatt chirped, brandishing a silver compact. “I was just about to try out my concealer. I figured you're the girliest person here, so you're the most qualified to help me.”

Eric stared. Blinked. And then slowly drew the blankets away from his shoulders. “Did you seriously just call me girly?”

“I did.” Wyatt grinned unrepentantly, leaning close enough that Eric could smell his cologne and see the dark five o'clock stubble along his jaw. “So help me with this.”

“Um, no.” Eric pulled away.

Snorting, Wyatt followed, crawling across the tiny bunk so that his mouth was nestled next to Eric's ear. “You mean you don't want to stare into my eyes and touch my face?” When he talked, Eric could feel his breath stirring the hair by his temple, and his face quickly became disturbingly warm.

“Definitely not,” he said, pushing at Wyatt's shoulder.

With a dramatic sigh, Wyatt pulled back, retreating to the edge of the mattress. “It was worth a shot, I guess.”

“Whatever,” Eric said, scooting away from him with a bewildered look.

“I guess I'll have to take a different approach, then.”

Stiffening, Eric curled his arms around himself protectively and said, “What?”

Wordlessly, Wyatt pointed to the purpley-yellow bruise that had spread across his nose and the dark circles beneath his eyes, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Guilt quickly pooled in his stomach like a physical wave of nausea. Without further protest, he took the compact from Wyatt and opened it. “Fine,” he muttered, squinting at the compact with confusion before he experimentally picked up the little pad inside.

“How do you think _I_ feel?” Wyatt asked, wincing as Eric began patting the skin around his nose. “Be careful, will you?”

“Oh, shut up,” Eric said, but he obediently softened his touch.

After that, both of them fell into an awkward silence as Eric alternately dabbed the pad on Wyatt’s face and rubbed it on the compact for more powder. The tiny mirror inside reflected Eric’s face as he worked – the wrinkle between his eyebrows, the concentrated frown, his tongue as it poked out as he focused on his job.

Eventually, Wyatt asked, “Do I look as stupid as I feel?”

“Probably,” Eric muttered, applying more powder over Wyatt's nose. No matter how much he put on, it still looked a little purple. “I think we need something else.”

Wyatt ducked his head in embarrassment. “London gave me some liquid stuff, but I don’t know how to use it.”

Eric sighed, shutting the compact with a dramatic flair and tossing it aside. “Well, since I’m the _girliest_ person on the bus, you’d better give it to me so I can put it on for you.”

“You’re right,” Wyatt said with a malicious grin. It probably didn’t have quite the effect he’d intended since his entire face was covered in poorly-blended _buff beige_ , as described on the back of the compact. He took a moment to dig around in the pocket of his jacket (the bus got kind of cold sometimes, so they’d all grown accustomed to wearing various arrays of hoodies) before he handed Eric a little blue plastic tube. “Go for it.”

“I will,” Eric said delicately as he unscrewed the lid. And then he paused, because really, what was he supposed to do with this stuff? He squeezed it a little, and a squirt of something skin-toned came out. Wyatt was looking too amused for his own good, so Eric gave him a little frown before swiping the liquid concealer with his finger and smudging it experimentally across Wyatt’s cheek.

Wyatt jumped a little. “That feels weird.”

Ignoring him, Eric blended it in with the pads of his fingers, biting his lip as he did so. Wyatt's skin was rougher than his own, but warm, and he was grateful he'd already applied the other makeup because he really, really couldn't handle it if Wyatt was blushing. “I think this was supposed to go on first,” he noted in an attempt to distract himself.

“Awesome,” mumbled Wyatt. “Good to know I’m going to look like a—”

“Shh,” Eric shushed him before the sensation of Wyatt's breath on his fingertips could produce any embarrassing or uncomfortable situations. “It’s easier if you don’t talk.”

Wyatt gave him a look that clearly said he didn’t believe him, yet he remained silent nonetheless. Eric’s long fingers swept across his cheekbones, over his nose, underneath his eyes, and it felt strangely soothing. Allowing his eyes to close, Wyatt crossed his arms because he had no idea what else to do with them and settled back to enjoy a rare moment of peace between them.

“Mmkay,” Eric said eventually, twisting the lid back onto the tube, and wiped his fingers on his pants. He sat back to examine his work critically, making a face when he decided, “I think I have to do the powder again.”

Opening his eyes, Wyatt gave him a frown, eyebrows furrowed, and asked, “Do I still look stupid?”

“Nah.” Eric picked up the compact and swiped the pad in the powder before dabbing at Wyatt’s skin. He gave him a shy smile. "You don't have to worry. It turns out I'm actually pretty awesome at this."

Wyatt's hazel eyes brightened with amusement. “Careful,” he warned. “You’re starting to sound like Simon.”

The potential to tease Wyatt about Simon was there, as always, but for some reason the prospect wasn't as appealing as usual. Instead of taking the opportunity to fuel Wyatt's supposed jealousy and provoke him into a petty silence, he actually laughed, head thrown back, and continued with his attempt to cover the bruise across Wyatt's face. He'd never felt quite so comfortable with Wyatt before, and he didn't have the heart to ruin it.

 

* * *

 

At the show, a few fans noticed Wyatt’s bruise as he sweated his makeup off on stage, and they were appropriately horrified by the thought of someone hurting him for any reason. During their sympathetic calls of empathy and outrage, Eric sat and hulked behind his keyboard, tapping idly at middle C and pretended not to exist. Wyatt smiled at him a little (which a lot of girls noticed, and promptly snapped a few photos) and kindly did not say anything.

As much as Eric grudgingly admitted he had appreciated the kind gesture, he didn’t want any of the fans to get the wrong idea, so he loudly ruined Wyatt’s between-song speech by pounding on as many keys as possible at once. Of course, that had the complete opposite effect of what he’d been going for. Instead of taking it as a sign of his annoyance with Wyatt, the crowd just laughed and whistled, and Wyatt grinned and yelled, “Look, Eric wants to say something!”

Actually, Eric did _not_ want to say anything, and he leaned into his mic to say just that. “Not really. I just wanted to mess with you because your ego's been out of hand lately.”

It’d been so long since his last run-in with the fangirls that he’d begun to forget just how excessive they could be. He’d stopped reading the forums long ago, because, quite frankly, they’d gotten a little too scary for even _his_ tastes. So he had no idea just how much his off-handed comment about Wyatt’s arrogance would affect their fanbase – specifically, the new assumption that Eric was intimate enough with Wyatt to notice the subtle nuances in his ego.

In short, fangirls were scary, scary creatures, and the worst part was that the band had an interview the next day. With questions. Submitted by the _fans_.

“I’m gonna kill myself,” Eric moaned as he flopped onto one of the stools that had been set out for him.

London just rolled his eyes and held out a microphone in his direction. “Please don’t kill yourself until _after_ the interview. And sit up straight, for God’s sake.”

Sulking spectacularly, Eric pulled himself up to properly arrange himself on the stool, flinging an irritated look in London’s direction. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he mumbled as he took the microphone.

“It’s my job to tell you what to do.”

Eric couldn’t really argue with that, so he settled for mocking London under his breath while he waited for the rest of the band to show. The camera men were already set up, and the interviewers were lining people up at the door. He recognized the familiar chatter of teenage girls with something close to terror.

 _Crap_ , he thought nervously. _I didn’t realize they were actually going to_ be _here to ask the questions._

Apparently, he’d accidentally said that out loud, because Wyatt gave him a funny look as he finally appeared on set and claimed the stool next to the to him. “Well, yeah,” he said with a little laugh. “How did you think they were going to do it?”

Eric took a second to be appropriately embarrassed before he schooled his features into a mild scowl and replied, “I don’t know. I thought maybe they’d submit their questions somewhere and the interviewers would pick some and ask them themselves. I didn’t think it would be anything like – like that,” he said, waving his hand expansively at the door behind which the girls were waiting.

“I get the feeling you don’t think much,” Wyatt said, grinning so wide it looked like it hurt. “So where’s everyone else?”

Snorting, Eric crossed his ankles and shrugged. “How should I know?”

“Right here,” London answered as he strode swiftly onstage. “Eric, can’t you at least _try_ to look straight?”

Eric blinked at him in surprise, his face instantly morphing into an expression of outrage. “Excuse me?”

“We're trying to appeal to all audiences,” London explained in a bored tone, like he'd already gone over it a million times before. “Not everyone accepts your lifestyle, so I would appreciate it if you didn't flaunt it. Just uncross your legs, please.”

Wyatt immediately burst into a fit of laughter as Eric flushed with anger and embarrassment and slowly uncrossed his ankles. “I was crossing my ankles, not my legs,” he pointed out in a dangerously angry tone. “It’s different.”

“What’s different?” Fatty chirped amicably as he ambled onto the set, giving everyone a warm smile before he sat next to Wyatt. He was happily oblivious to Eric's obvious anger.

“None of your business,” Eric said, dismissing him with a quick flick of his wrist, and narrowed his eyes at London. “I can't believe you just called me gay.”

For once, London looked stumped. He glanced at Wyatt, then Cyrus, and then finally looked back at Eric. “Well, aren't you?”

“Aren’t I what?” Eric growled, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

“Inclined towards men,” London elaborated in a careful tone.

“What have I ever done that would give you reason to thinkthat?”

Hesitantly, the other three men exchanged more uncomfortable glances before pointedly looking Eric up and down – his well-styled, flippy hair, tidily ironed and collared shirt, slim pants, and Lacoste shoes. Combined with his thin, delicate wrists, high cheekbones, and otherwise soft-featured face, well… He had to admit, he did look pretty gay. And he was. But he distinctly didn't recall ever telling anyone, or giving them permission to talk about it.

“It’s kind of obvious,” Wyatt eventually said. “I have excellent gaydar. I wouldn't be flirting with you so often if I weren't one hundred percent sure you liked men.”

Eric was very proud of what he did next. He didn't blush, scream, hide on the bus, deny or divulge his sexuality. He did absolutely none of the things he felt like doing. Instead, he gritted his teeth, clutching his mic in a white-knuckled grip, and relentlessly ignored everyone until James appeared and took his seat. He didn’t even speak until the interview began, no matter how many times the other band members prodded at him to draw him into a conversation.

The cameras started rolling, and the first question came from Mary from Santa Barbara, who asked in a shy voice, “It seems like people are starting to focus more on your looks than on your music. Does that bother you at all?”

There was a silence while it seed like everyone gathered their thoughts. Eric bit his nails and crossed his ankles again subconsciously, determined to stay out of the spotlight and not answer any questions. But the silence stretched on, and his leg started jiggling, and then he surprised them all by answering first.

“It's okay with me,” he said, his voice quaking unexpectedly underneath the intense scrutiny of the fan, the camera men, and the rest of the band. “I mean. Uh. You know, it's nice that people think I'm hot, or that everyone else is hot. And I'm not really involved much in the musical process, so, you know.” He was rambling. He knew it. His face was red and his forehead was starting to sweat. Shrugging, he looked to the side and tried to curb his tangent. “Yeah, it's all right.”

More silence. Eric was going to need a towel soon if this kept up. Luckily, James saved the day by clearing his throat and shifting forward on his stool.

“I think what Eric trying to say was that we are first and foremost musicians, not performers,” James said with a winning smile. He paused for a moment to shake his bangs out of his eyes. “If fans want to concentrate on our looks, that’s okay, so long as they’re still listening to the music and getting the message we want to send.”

“Excellent answers,” London said, nodding. He put a hand on Mary's shoulder and sent her away, waving for security to send in the next fan. “New question?”

“Uh,” said the second girl, tapping the microphone experimentally before she leaned in to speak into it too loudly. “I’ve noticed that Wyatt’s face is bruised. Can you tell me what that’s from?”

Flushing, Wyatt’s hand flew up to touch his nose, and he managed a good-natured laugh before he answered, “I had an accident.”

“With a door,” Eric clarified.

“He walked into it,” James supplied helpfully.

“Kind of,” Wyatt muttered.

Mary's expression was disbelieving. She looked like she wanted to ask something else, but everyone was allowed one and _only_ one question, so after it became clear that no other band members had a response, she pursed her lips and scooted obediently to the side.

Fan number three wanted to know, “What were your jobs before the band became successful?”

That one was easy. “I was a roadie,” Eric declared with a smirk. Then, after the other three gave him varying looks of, _They already knew that, dumbass,_ Eric rolled his eyes and continued, “Before that, I was a business student.”

“Wait a minute,” Wyatt cut in, surprised. “Seriously?”

Fidgeting on his stool, Eric glanced at him and said, “Uh. Yes?” And then he narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

Wyatt shrugged. “You just don’t strike me as the business school type.”

James, who had an uncanny ability to sense when Eric was about to get pissed off, smiled placidly and cut in, “I was a substance abuse counselor for about a year.”

 _That explains a lot_ , Eric thought to himself. No wonder James could take any situation in stride – he’d been dealing with druggies and alcoholics before this, so dealing with a tantrum from a grown man was probably a cake walk.

Wyatt cleared his throat. “I was a student teacher.”

“What?” Eric piped up before he could stop himself. “Really? That’s like, the complete opposite of starting a band.”

“Not really,” Wyatt said with a frown. “I was a _music_ student teacher, and besides, I'm not the only person to switch from teaching to rock music.”

Before Wyatt could launch into a lecture of music history, James prompted kindly, “Cyrus?”

Cyrus grinned sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck with a big hand. “This is a little embarrassing, I guess, but I was studying to be a male nurse.”

Amidst the scattered laughter to that answer, London cleared his throat and announced, “Okay, two more questions to go!”

Inquiry number four went something like this:

“At the beginning of the tour, Eric mentioned he was seeing someone.” The fan paused, during which Eric tried to remember when the hell he’d fed them that particular lie, and realized it had happened after his very first run-in with the fans when they wouldn’t stop asking him if he was dating a member of the band. The girl continued with, “Can you tell us a little about her, please?”

“Uh.” Tugging at his shirt collar, Eric tried to think of an appropriate response and failed. His heart hammered violently at the thought of admitting his lie – or worse, correcting her pronoun usage to indicate a fake _boy_ friend. “She was sort of a bitch,” he mumbled finally, feeling oddly defeated. “We broke up.”

The final fan surprised all of them by being a male – and masculine, to boot. Eric supposed he was one of the few supporters who actually listened to the band for their music, and from the corner of his eye, he could see Wyatt perking up in his chair, probably at the idea of a listener with a real appreciation for the mechanics behind the music.

“You might have been asked this before,” began the fan, grasping the microphone with both hands, “but I was just wondering if you were aware of all the fanfiction about you, what you thought about it, and if you happened to read any of it.”

Apparently, that hadn’t been quite the question Wyatt was expecting, because he deflated in his chair. Eric just smirked at him.

“Yeah,” Eric replied before anyone else could. He actually had an opinion on this subject, so he didn't mind sharing. “I read a lot of it. It’s kind of disturbing if you ask me, but I figure I should keep up on what people are saying about me.” Eric looked to his left, where Wyatt was sitting, and raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Well? What about you?”

Wyatt was blushing – he shifted uneasily in his seat before answering, “I tried reading one once, but I got about a paragraph in before I had to close out.” He shook his head at the memory and promptly refused to say anything more on the subject.

James’s answer was simple: “I think it’s great that we’re people to express their creativity,” he said with a warm smile. “I don’t really have the time to read it, though.”

Fatty actually cringed a little as he answered. “I don’t read it, but I know what it’s about. All I really have to say is, please stop writing about us having gay sex with each other.”

His response was met with scattered laughter. London personally thanked each participant for their time as the camera men began packing up their equipment. It was a long few minutes before London eventually made his way over to the band.

“Great job, everyone,” he said with a beaming smile. “Let’s get lunch and head back to the bus, shall we?”

Eric's stomach rumbled in assent. He didn't have to be told twice before he hopped off the stool and made for the back exit to where the bus was parked. On the way, he was surprised by Wyatt jogging to catch up with him.

Eric glanced at him from the corner of his eye and frowned. “What? Going to tell me how gay I am again?”

“Nope,” Wyatt replied, stuffing his hands in his pockets and smiling at him. “I had a different topic in mind.”

“Oh?” Eric asked, hoping his voice sounded sufficiently disinterested.

“Yeah. Business school, huh?”

Oh, God. Of all the things to talk about, he had to pick that.

“Yes,” he said, his shoulders involuntarily hunching. “Do you have a problem with that?”

“No,” Wyatt said. As they approached the bus, he held out his hand and darted ahead, opening the door for Eric with a theatrical flourish. “I just can’t imagine you in an office, or doing anything that serious, really.”

“I’ll have you know I can be _very_ serious,” Eric mumbled as he passed by him and climbed onto the bus. He didn't want to admit it, but he was maybe smiling a little. “Music is serious business, you know.”

Wyatt laughed. “Oh, trust me, I know,” he said, and then walked in behind Eric and then let the door swing shut with a smile.


	8. Chapter 8

In a band as naturally tumultuous as theirs, peace could never last long – so, really, Eric should have been expecting the ensuing disaster when London started passing out their plane tickets for Europe.

“I’m taking the boat,” Eric insisted, trying to shove the ticket back into London’s hands. “You might as well sell this to someone, because I’m not gonna use it.”

“Honestly,” London huffed, blowing his bangs out of his face irritably. “You’re going to be fine. I promise.”

Finally throwing the ticket on the ground (London just _refused_ to take it), Eric snapped, “What will your promise matter when I’m dead, huh? Or drowning? Or on fire?”

London’s eyebrow twitched, and he brought his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He seemed to be weighing the pros and cons of just knocking Eric out cold and dragging him bodily onto the plane. “Please, Eric,” he murmured softly. “At least take your sedatives.”

“I’m not a cow.”

“I know that. These are human sedatives, and I had to go through a lot of trouble to get them—”

“I didn’t ask for them.” Scowling, Eric turned his head away in a pose that clearly said he wasn’t going to take them no matter what London did.

“Fine,” sighed London in defeat. “I’ll figure something out.” Stooping to retrieve the plane ticket, he gave Eric a severely annoyed look and left the room.

Quickly following London’s exit was James’s entrance as he slowly meandered back to the bunk section of the bus, where Eric had taken to having most of his panic attacks and temper tantrums. James was carrying a plate of delicious-smelling cookies and, upon seeing Eric, he smiled and held out the plate.

Eric eyed him suspiciously. “I don’t remember you baking. Where’d those come from?”

“My mother sent them to me. Do you want one?”

He wasn’t convinced. “London didn’t do anything crazy like tell you to hide my pills inside those, did he?”

James laughed. “No, he did not. I’ve barely spoken to him beyond getting my ticket.” He held the plate a little closer, temptingly. “They’re chocolate chip.”

Eric’s sweet tooth eventually won out over his distrust, and he snatched one from the plate and bit into it, watching James’s face carefully for any clues as to whether they really were laced with sedatives. However, the other man’s expression remained nothing short of amicable, so Eric swallowed and went on to eat half the plate.

He thanked James (who just smiled at him and told him it was no problem) before he went to flop down on his bunk and mentally bitched to himself about oceans and planes and Europe. And that was when his eyes started to feel heavy, and his heartbeat felt too slow and too strong, and he could feel himself suddenly, swiftly slipping into sleep.

With his last wakening breath, he cursed James and his entire family line, and then promptly passed out.

 

* * *

 

When he woke up, he was still on the bus, but they were parked in front of the airport, and everybody was piling outside with bags slung over their shoulders. He was still groggy, and the pills hadn’t worn off yet, but he was still coherent enough to think: _Oh, shit. I haven’t even packed_. And that was when Wyatt cheerfully bounded into the room, carrying two bags, one of which he threw at Eric’s face. “Ready to go?”

Eric blearily pulled the duffel bag off his head, feeling like everything was moving in slow motion, and blinked at Wyatt with a great deal of effort. “Do I have to be?” he asked, half-slurred with fatigue.

Wyatt shrugged. “Pretty much,” he said, and then reached over to haul Eric to his feet. Eric wavered unsteadily for a moment, throwing out a hand to brace himself against the wall.

“I’m taking the boat,” he mumbled. “I don’t wanna get on the plane. It’s going to crash.”

“That’s not what London said.” Taking him by the arm, Wyatt shouldered Eric’s bag again and began leading him to the bus door. “He figured I should be the one to haul your prissy ass to the terminal, since James and Cyrus are too wimpy to carry you.”

Eric at least had the state of mind to be offended. “Who says you’re going to have to carry me?”

“London, if the dosage he gave you while you’re sleeping was enough.” Adjusting the bags on his shoulder, Wyatt smirked at him. “Of course, it shouldn’t be too hard. You’re pretty small.”

“I’m not small,” he hissed, absently thinking to himself that at least being drugged was a whole lot less embarrassing than being drunk.

“Whatever you say,” Wyatt laughed. Placing his hand on the small of Eric’s back, he guided him through the automatic doors and into the airport, where London was standing impatiently at the check-in counter. He looked annoyed.

“Is he good to go?” he asked once Wyatt and Eric were close enough.

Wyatt gave Eric a long, considering look, and then finally nodded. “I think so. Did you give him enough to knock him out again?”

“Er, no,” London said. “That was an accident. We didn’t think he’d eat that many cookies.”

“They were delicious,” Eric mumbled, slumping dejectedly as Wyatt secured an arm around him to keep him from bolting out of the terminal. “James is a bastard for ruining them.”

“Whoa there, killer,” Wyatt murmured, adjusting his grip on Eric’s waist. “James was only trying to help.”

Weakly, Eric stopped twisting around in Wyatt’s grasp and hung his head in defeat. “It’s his fault if I die.”

Wyatt rolled his eyes and dutifully pushed him along as the check-in line moved. “I think that’s a risk he’s willing to take.”

“Are you saying nobody would care if I died?” Eric mumbled unhappily, leaning against Wyatt’s strong, sturdy shoulder to steady himself as he walked.

“Yes,” Wyatt snapped. “That’s exactly what everyone wants – for you to die in a plane crash with me.”

“How romantic,” Eric drawled.

“Do you really think so?” Wyatt asked with a smile – which was totally out of place, Eric thought, given the situation. “You look pretty calm about the whole thing.”

“Calm,” Eric repeated, as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I am anything but calm. I’m panicking.”

“You don’t look like it,” Wyatt pointed out, and Eric stopped at that to catalogue his symptoms.

He felt – well, kind of warm, and his heart was still beating too slowly, too strongly, like a steady bass drum in his chest. It seemed like it might flip over at any moment. His limbs, he discovered, were strangely uncooperative, and he thought he might fall down if not for Wyatt’s stable arm fixed solidly to his waist. He was also kind of tingly, but that didn’t seem to fit in with his other side effects.

Most importantly, he felt no signs of panic.

“Huh,” he mumbled, confused. “That’s strange.”

“And that’s why you should have just taken the damn pills in the first place,” Wyatt noted with an amused grin, then proceeded to haul him through check-in, security, and customs, all the way to the terminal.

 

* * *

 

Theoretically, Wyatt’s babysitting job should have been over once they boarded the plane, but London had arranged the seats alphabetically, and Wyatt and Eric’s last names were right next to each other. Since first class seats were arranged in twos, this meant that they had an entire row to themselves. Alone. Which was both a good and bad thing. Good because Eric would have had a claustrophobic meltdown if he’d been sandwiched in between more people than that, but bad because, well, it was Wyatt. And they were _alone_.

“This sucks,” Eric mumbled, his forehead resting against the seat in front of him, and clutched the armrests nervously in his hands. “You’d better not molest me on this trip. If you do, I’m going to throw up on you. We’re going to take off, and then I’m going to throw up on you.”

“You will not,” Wyatt said as he brushed his red bangs out of his face. “If you do, make sure you do it in this bad. Here.” He pulled it out of the flap in front of him and dangled it above Eric’s head. “See? We’ve got you covered.”

“You’re not funny.” But he took the bag anyway and opened it, holding it in front of him just in case. “Can I have another sedative or something?”

Wyatt looked at him, amused. “I thought you were against them.”

“I am,” he snapped. “But I’d really like to be asleep before we’re in the air so I don’t have to deal with this crap.”

Raising an eyebrow, Wyatt tilted his head and asked, “Why do you need a sedative to sleep? You could just, you know – close your eyes and try to fall asleep.” He grinned devilishly. “Or we could always get a drink for you from the stewardess. We all know how much fun you are when you’re drunk.”

Eric just kept his head down and grumbled, “Shut up.”

“Fine, fine,” Wyatt sighed, dismissing the other man’s insult with a wave of his hand. “I still don’t see why you can’t just close your eyes or something and think sleepy thoughts.”

“I can’t sleep sitting up. I have to at least have a pillow.”

“They have little pillows, you know.”

Eric snorted, sluggishly sagging to the side. Maybe he was a little sleepier than he thought. “They’re dirty. And I’d still be sitting up straight.”

Wyatt began to grin. “You could always use my lap.”

Eric looked at him dubiously, eyebrows furrowed and lips pressed firmly together. “Why does that sound like a horrible idea?”

“Aw, c’mon,” Wyatt coaxed. “If I really wanted to molest you without your consent, I would have done it a long time ago.”

 

* * *

 

Remarkably, Eric managed to sleep nearly the whole way to Europe. He woke up once, but he was knocked back to sleep again after another round of sedatives. His face had lines from Wyatt’s shirt imprinted onto it, which he was quite unhappy with, and he rubbed at his cheek the entire time they waited for their bags.

“That was torture,” he said in a childish, sulky tone as they piled into the car London had arranged to pick them up. “I feel like somebody crammed twenty rolls of paper towels in my head through my nose. There’s no way I’m letting you drug me on the way back.”

“I’m sure London will see what he can do,” James replied in a soothing tone as he slid into the seat next to him. Fatty piled in next, and Eric was squished uncomfortably against Wyatt, who in turn was getting to know the window quite well.

“Can you move over?” Eric squeaked to James as Wyatt indiscreetly brushed his hand against Eric’s thigh.

“Sorry,” James said. “I don’t think this backseat was meant for four people.”

“Well, how come one of us isn’t riding with the roadies?” Eric asked with a pointed look in their manager’s direction, who was sitting quite placidly in the front seat.

“Because _some_ one would have complained about it,” London pointed out in a tone that booked no argument. “And I can’t very well send anyone else in the staff car, now, can I?”

“How about yourself?” Eric snapped.

“I wouldn’t have minded,” said Fatty tentatively, leaning forward to speak to London. “I can still go, actually.”

Waving him off, London pointed to the car driving off in front of him. “Don’t worry about it. It’s too late now.”

“I can give the driver a ring and ask him to wait for us,” piped up their liason from the driver’s seat. She was a chipper woman in her mid-thirties named Bridget, hired by London to be their guide around the unfamiliar country. Eric’s current impression of her was limited to the back of her curly blonde head.

“No, that won’t be necessary, but thanks,” London said warmly.

“Great,” Eric sighed, slumping against James. “This is awesome. I always wanted to know what a sardine felt like.”

“Probably a lot like a fish,” James said with an amused smile.

“I meant in a can,” Eric muttered. “I don’t need your smart aleckiness right now, James.”

“Smart aleckiness.” James raised one of his hands to cover his growing smile. “That’s a very technical term, isn’t it?”

Eric shoved James’s shoulder, risking his manly virtue by shifting to lean against Wyatt instead. “You’re not funny.”

“Oh, but I think I am.”

“I’m sure you do.” Rolling his eyes, Eric turned to glare out the window, but he was extremely unsettled to find Wyatt staring at him instead. He immediately flushed and turned his head so fast his neck actually hurt. James gave him a curious glance, so Eric slid down in his seat so far his knees were almost at an even height with his ears and focused on watching the dashboard for the entire ride.

 

* * *

 

Upon their arrival at the hotel, Eric’s phone buzzed in his pocket with a text from Peter.

 

_Seriously, if you don’t get me tickets to the England shows, I’m never speaking to you again._

 

Considering the fact they’d been friends since middle school, Eric sincerely doubted that Peter would never talk to him again. Still, it made him feel guilty, so he caught London by his shirt sleeve as they were dragging their luggage to their respective rooms.

“What are you doing?” London asked, looking appalled, as he turned to face Eric. Apparently he wasn’t a big fan of randomly being grabbed in the middle of hallways.

“I need a favor,” he said, firmly maintaining his grasp on London’s arm.

“What is it?” London asked slowly.

“I need tickets for my friend.”

“That’s fine,” he said with a nod. “Which show?”

“Um.” Eric, who was a little thrown off by the ease with which he’d won, blinked a few times before he could remember which venues Peter had requested. “All of the ones in England?”

London nodded again. “Okay. Give me your friend’s name later and I’ll add him to the list. Is there anything else?”

Frowning, Eric dropped his hand to his side and tried to think of something else he could bug the other man for, but he came up empty. “No,” he muttered, sounding bitter.

“Good,” London replied with a triumphant smile. “In that case, I’m going to my room. You’re on your own for the rest of the night. Try not to injure anyone, please.”

Eric rolled his eyes, pulling out his phone as he stepped onto the elevator. “Christ, you’re worse than my mother,” he mumbled, then made a sour face at the memory of his parents, and distracted himself by sending a text back to Peter that he’d scored him free tickets.

And then he realized that this meant he’d get to see his best friend for the first time in an entire _year_ , and that thought was exhilarating. Peter attended Oxford University, and as much as Eric loved him, there was no way in hell he was going to visit before this. The idea of hanging out with him cheered him up considerably, and he exited the elevator with a literal bounce in his step.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Eric received this:

 

_I’ll be at the Manchester coach station tomorrow, so you’d better come pick me up._

 

He’d never heard such a great idea before in his life, so he immediately sought out London to beg for his help. It was still early, and everyone was sitting around biding their time before the performance that night. After aimlessly wandering around the hotel for a few minutes, Eric eventually found London eating jam on toast and drinking tea in the breakfast room.

“London,” he greeted, draping himself over his shoulders amiably. “How are you this morning?”

The manager shot him a suspicious look and hesitated a moment before responding, “I’m doing fine. And you?”

Eric smiled so wide it was almost painful. “Well, you see, I need another favor.”

At that, London rolled his eyes and shrugged off Eric’s supposedly friendly arm. “No,” he said.

“What?” Eric squawked. “You don’t even know what I was going to say!”

Frowning, London folded his arms across his chest. “And I don’t need to. You’re always asking for outrageous things, like boats and raises and skipping every schedule I make.” He pursed his lips angrily. “So, I really don’t think I have to listen to you before I say no.”

Eric glared. “Actually, I was going to ask if we could pick up my best friend whom I haven’t seen for a year.”

Guilt trips apparently worked better than sweet-talking, because London just paused and stared at him for a long time before he said, “How far away does he live?”

“Oxford,” Eric said, brightening, and pulled out his phone to hopefully inform Peter that someone would indeed be picking him up. “How long does it take to get here from Oxford?”

With a forlorn look at the breakfast he obviously wasn’t going to have time to finish, London pushed himself up from his chair and sighed. “I don’t know, but I’ll find out. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he gets here safely.”

Eric perked. “I can come along, right?”

London’s eyebrow twitched. “I suppose you’d have to unless you want to provide a detailed description of your friend.”

Happiness swelled in Eric’s chest. “No, that’s okay. I’d rather come along. Thank you, London.”

London looked somewhat bewildered at the sincere thanks, but he took it all in stride. “You’re welcome. Stay here while I arrange things with Bridget, please.”

Eric nodded and flopped down into a chair to wait, jittery with excitement.

 

* * *

 

Peter was a small, stick-like half-Chinese man with perpetually messy black hair, slanted bangs, and a meek smile. As far as clothing and hair were concerned, he and Simon were almost identical twins, but that was exactly where the similarities stopped. For one, Peter actually slept at night, and for two – well, he wasn’t fucking crazy.

“Hi,” Peter mumbled shyly as Eric practically threw himself upon his best friend. Peter returned the hug with one arm as he asked, “How’s the tour going?”

“It’s going pretty well,” he said slowly, frowning to himself as he realized that, despite all the panic attacks and injuries, it had been a lot of fun.

“That’s good.” Shouldering his duffel bag, Peter followed his friend back to the car, blinking when he saw London leaning against the passenger side door. “Who’s that?” he asked.

“The manager,” he said. He pointed to the pretty blonde head in the driver’s seat and explained, “That’s Bridget, our tour guide. She’s British.”

Smiling cordially, London took Peter’s baggage and offered him a firm handshake. “Nice to meet you,” he said warmly. “I’m London Hawkes. And Bridget is actually our liason.”

Peter returned the handshake timidly. “I’m Peter. Thanks for picking me up.”

“Don’t mention it.” London waved away the unnecessary thanks with a dismissive gesture, opening the door to the back seat for them before he climbed in through the passenger’s side. “So, Eric tells me you’re coming to all the England shows.”

“Yep. I hope you don’t mind if I mooch off you and stay in Eric’s room.”

“He’s got a schedule,” Eric muttered with a gloomy look in London’s expression. “He’ll probably get his panties in a knot if he has to rearrange it.”

As Bridget started the engine and pulled onto the road, London glanced at them over his shoulder and shrugged. “I suppose it wouldn’t kill me to share a room with James for one night.”

“What? You never let me change rooms!” Eric squawked, then paused and added, “Unless I hit someone with a door.”

Peter smirked. “Oh, really? Who’d you hit with a door?”

“Wyatt,” Eric responded, almost ashamedly.

“Ah,” tsked Peter. “That can’t be good for your sex life.”

“What?” Bridget swerved a little. “What’s this about you and Wyatt, then?”

“Nothing!” Eric quickly slapped a hand over Peter’s mouth. “Absolutely nothing. Peter is a dirty liar.”

Laughing, Peter pried Eric’s hands away as he gave London a glittering, mischievous smile. “He’s just bitter because he doesn’t get to room with Wyatt enough. You should work on that.”

“Peter!” shrieked Eric in mortification. “Stop it right now!” He looked at London desperately. “Seriously, I don’t know what he’s talking about. Please don’t room me with Wyatt anymore.”

London smirked widely and gave Peter a conspiratorial look before saying, “It’s okay, Eric. I guess I should have seen the signs sooner.” He reclined his seat slightly with a half-seditious smile. “I can make an exception for you and Wyatt, I suppose. It must be hard work hiding your relationship all the time.”

“I had no idea you had a sense of humor,” Eric remarked after a long beat of silence, during which Peter had bitten his lip to keep from snickering.

“Right, then,” said Bridget, smiling uneasily as she finally caught on. She found Eric’s eyes in the rearview mirror and said, “Now don’t forget we’re meeting in the lobby at seven tonight to take a cab to the venue.”

 “So, Peter,” Eric said, turning his attention to his friend as they exited the car and walked inside. “Why didn’t you bring Lex?”

Rolling his shoulders ambiguously, Peter jammed the _up_ button on the elevator, which Eric was amused to find was labeled as a _lift_. “He’s got an exam on Monday, so he has to study, and he can’t skip class like I am.”

Right. The band had a show on Monday. That made sense.

“Too bad,” Eric replied, although he didn’t think it was too bad at all. In fact, he was rather looking forward to a weekend alone with his best friend, and he stepped inside the elevator as the large metal doors swished aside.

“Yeah,” Peter said softly, and was quiet a moment until his face lit up, and he turned to face Eric almost shyly. “Can I meet the rest of the band?”

“Of course,” Eric agreed, slinging his arm around Peter’s shoulders. “I’m not sure where everybody is, though.”

“That’s okay, we’ll find them.”

Pushing the button for the appropriate floor, Eric leaned against the elevator wall and squinted at his best friend. He was wearing an old band T-shirt from one of the first concerts he’d ever dragged Eric to along with stylishly faded black jeans and a studded belt. He looked exactly as Eric remembered him, and yet something was still different.

“I wish you’d gone to a closer school,” Eric blurted as he realized he’d missed an entire _year_ of Peter’s life, and that he had probably changed quite a bit during it.

Peter, who was idly kicking his heel against the carpeted elevator floor, looked up at him in surprise. Brushing his messy black bangs out of his eyes, he peered at Eric with a curious expression as he asked, “Where did that come from?”

Embarrassed, Eric pretended to examine his fingernails rather than meet Peter’s brown gaze. “Life is kind of boring without you.”

It seemed that Peter knew exactly what Eric meant, however, because he scooted two steps closer and bumped their shoulders together. “Hey,” he said, “it wouldn’t have really mattered anyway, right? You’re too busy being a roadie.”

“Yeah,” Eric replied, although it had a hint of melancholy. He had something else to say, but he forgot it as the elevator dinged and the doors opened with a swoosh. Peter stepped out first, clasping his hands behind his back, and grinned at the blond over his shoulder.

“You coming?” he asked.

Eric nodded and stepped over the threshold, managing a smile as Peter prodded him with his foot to move him along in their search the band.


	9. Chapter 9

Eric and Peter found everyone strewn around one of the dressing rooms, determinedly watching a movie and ignoring the still jittery Simon. Since Peter walked in with the band, he didn’t need a ticket, let alone a backstage pass, and he found an empty space on the countertop from which to watch everyone else get ready.

“What are you doing?” he asked as he watched Eric poke himself in the eye with a stick of eyeliner for the third time.

“Dying,” Eric  muttered, finally tossing the eyeliner down in disgust. “James told me to try it, because I don’t, I don’t know, look enough like—”

“You don’t look like a rockstar,” James cut in laconically. “You know, I thought eyeliner would look good on you,” he said, squinting as he assessed Eric, “but now that I see it, it’s not really your style.”

Eric looked down at his tidy blue polo and freshly ironed pants and frowned, realizing with dismay that he looked more like a department store model than a rockstar. “Whose style is it, then?”

“People like Brian Viglione,” Peter said knowledgably.

Eric squinted at him. “Like who?”

“Like the hottest drummer ever.” Sighing, Peter slid off the counter and picked up Eric’s eyeliner. “Here, let me do it.”

Eric jerked away. “No way. I’m not letting you anywhere near my eye with any pointy objects.”

“Don’t be such a baby,” Peter chided, taking Eric’s face in one hand with the eyeliner pencil poised directly above his eyelid. “Hold still, or I really will poke you in the eye.”

“You’re vicious,” Eric complained, but stilled obediently. Getting his eyes jabbed out didn’t sound very appealing at the moment. Or at any moment, for that matter. He sat in his chair and fidgeted only when Peter had to literally pry his eyes open because Eric couldn’t stop blinking.

As luck would have it, that was the exact moment Wyatt decided to stumble into the dressing room.

He took one look at them – Peter, stooped over Eric with eyeliner, and Eric, eyes watering, hands clenched on the chair, with James sitting serenely amongst the center of the scene. After doing a double take to make certain that, yes, Peter really was applying makeup for Eric, Wyatt couldn’t help cracking up into a fit of laughter.

“Shut up,” Eric mumbled, pushing Peter away to glare at Wyatt properly. Unfortunately, Peter had only finished with one eye, and Wyatt’s laughter only got louder at the full sight of him. “It’s not _funny_. It’s harder than it looks.”

“You—” Wyatt gasped for air “—you’re so _good_ at makeup, though, remember?”

Bristling, Eric grabbed the stick of eyeliner and threw it at Wyatt’s head. “Shhh!”

“What’s this about makeup?” Peter asked, visibly perking.

“It’s nothing,” Eric insisted, fleeing the room to wash his face. He didn’t want to be there for that particular story. Instead, he stood in front of the mirror, scrutinizing his reflection, and sighed as he plucked at the collar of his polo. As much as he hated to admit it aloud, he really did need a new wardrobe. He hadn't updated it since before being hired on as a roadie. Prior to this, clothes had always just sort of appeared unconsciously in his life. Probably because his mom bought them for him and he’d never given it a second thought.

“Eric?” Peter timidly poked his head into the bathroom. In his haste to escape the embarrassing scene, Eric had completely forgotten to lock the door. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Eric muttered, splashing his face with warm water and wiping at his eyes with a paper towel. It didn’t exactly have the desired effect – he just looked like a raccoon now; or maybe even an extensively sleep-deprived raccoon with dark circles. It was depressing.

“You looked fine,” Peter said.

 “Right,” Eric scoffed and splashed his face with more water. Maybe if he used soap, it would come off easier – but he _really_ didn’t want to get that in his eyes, because they were tearing up enough as it was. From the repeated pokes to his eye, of course. Not from anything stupid. Not like Wyatt laughing at him had hurt or anything.

“I’ve never known you to be so sensitive,” Peter commented off-handedly as he handed him another paper towel. “Usually you’re arrogant enough to brush off stuff like this.”

Damn Peter. He knew Eric far too well.

“Yeah, well.” Eric didn’t really have anything else to say to that, so he concentrated on rubbing the eyeliner off, which kind of hurt, actually. Fucking paper towel.

After watching in silence for a few moments, Peter patted his back and murmured, “Let me get you some toilet paper instead,” and ducked into a stall to retrieve just that. When he came back out, he handed it to Eric, who took it with a sour expression.

“Thanks.” Eric rubbed his eyes, then scowled at his reflection and wiped harder at the dark circles of eyeliner with the toilet paper. “Wyatt gets to me, is all.”

“I see,” Peter said thoughtfully, leaning against the paper towel dispenser, and then apparently decided not to pursue the subject any further. “I’m really excited about the show, you know.”

Glad for the topic change, Eric perked up and looked at Peter over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Peter echoed with a smile.

“Cool.” And with that, he felt at least a little better.

Eric never quite managed to get all the eyeliner off. Peter later confessed to him that it had been water-proof, and he needed makeup remover to get rid of it properly. It left him with a sort of smudgy charcoal look beneath his eyes, but James told him it was smoky and actually didn’t look bad.

However, Eric was disinclined to believe anything James said at the moment – the cookie fiasco forever made James subject to suspicion in Eric’s opinion – so Eric kept his head down for most of the concert. Maybe he would try borrowing some different clothes for the next show.

 

* * *

 

Peter, despite having the approximate circumference of a twig, did not fit in the already-full rental car composed of the four band members. Luckily, Fatty volunteered to take a seat in the roadie car, and all was well. London, despite being band manager, had already taken a seat in there.

Eric didn’t know how it happened, but he ended up in the backseat with Peter and Wyatt, while James took the passenger seat next to Bridget in order to play navigator. Probably because he was the most reliable one out of them all, and therefore better suited to handle the maps, but still. Eric didn’t like the idea of only having one skinny half-Chinese man between Wyatt and himself. He also had no problem voicing this fact aloud.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, arms folded tightly across his chest, a scowl already in place. “I don’t see why Wyatt couldn’t have ridden in the roadie car with London.”

“I’m too famous for that,” Wyatt commented off-handedly, face turned toward the window as he watched the scenery.

Apparently, Peter had some kind of sixth sense for when Eric was getting riled up and liable to punch someone, because he gently laid his hand atop Eric’s and gave him a warning look. “I’d like to _not_ have to stop at a hospital on the way,” he muttered, and Eric merely snorted at him before yanking his hand away.

“Whatever.”

Stirring in his seat, Wyatt looked over at him with a decidedly bemused look. “What, no witty comeback?” he teased.

“Nope,” Eric replied as he sank against the back of the seat and turned his head to stare out the window. The glass was dotted with raindrops, and the sky outside was gloomy and gray. “England sucks. Why is it always raining?”

“Hey,” Peter said with a frown. “I happen to live here, you know. I like the rain.”

“You only live here because you decided to be a stuck up bitch and go to Oxford,” Eric shot back, but it was completely void of any malice, and he grinned as he said it.

Wyatt watched all of this with an expression akin to wonder. Peter must have noticed this, because he graced the older man with a shy sort of smile and said, “It must be hard to be the sole object of his scorn when I’m not around.”

Ignoring Eric’s squawk of indignation, Wyatt returned the smile with a laugh. “Yeah, kind of.” He rubbed the tip of his still-bruised nose and grinned. “Especially when he gets violent.”

“Oh, right!” Peter sat up in his seat with excitement. “He hit you with a door, right?”

“Uh, yeah. How’d you know?”

Eric shrugged. “Peter’s very up-to-date on the band. He’s sort of obsessed.”

Peter grinned. “I’m a moderator on one of the forums.”

“It didn’t happen that long ago,” Wyatt pointed out with a frown. “And we lied about it in the interview.”

Lifting his shoulders in a shrug, Peter flopped back against his seat and said, “People get pretty obsessive.” He sent Eric a glare. “Unlike me, thanks.”

Eric poked him in the forehead. “You’re a _moderator_ ,” he stressed. “That instantly makes you obsessive.”

“Not true.” Peter batted Eric’s finger away almost poutily. “What it makes me is a _fan_.”

“An obsessive fan,” Eric joked, laughing out loud as Peter scowled and jostled his shoulder.

At this point, Wyatt’s bemused look turned into complete bewilderment. “Are you the real Eric?” he asked, reaching over to rap his fingers against the back of Eric’s head.

Eric promptly shoved Wyatt’s hand away. “Ow! What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Ah, that’s the real Eric, all right,” Wyatt laughed, leaning back in his seat with a relieved expression. “You had me worried for a second there.”

“What are you talking about?”

Shrugging, Wyatt turned his attention to picking at his nails and said, “I don’t know. I just don’t think I’ve ever seen you be anything except a pissy bitch.”

Eric couldn't think of a decent insult, so he just brushed his bangs out of his eyes and turned back to Peter instead. Peter watched him for a moment, eyes flickering between Wyatt and Eric, before he reached into the bag between his feet to produce a notebook and a pen.

“Tic-tac-toe?” he asked with raised eyebrows.

“Sure,” Eric said, glad for the distraction, and took the pen. “Dibs on X.”

 

* * *

 

Waiting at the Bristol venue, in a black midriff shirt and cuffed jeans, was a surprise for Peter: Lex. He had his thumbs hooked through his belt loops, hips cocked to the side, and he started waving madly as soon as the half-Chinese man exited the car.

“Lex,” Peter said in surprise, nearly stumbling backwards as Lex bowled him over in a hug, and Peter tentatively wrapped his arms around his waist and grinned. “I thought you had an exam tomorrow?”

“I do,” Lex replied with a wink, his voice colored by a strong British accent. “But I figured it would be cool to take the train here and surprise you.”

Peter laughed in response. “Yes, very cool.”

Standing behind them was Eric, frozen half-way out of the rental car and staring at Lex. His brain absolutely refused to process beyond one fact: Lex had blue hair. _Vibrantly_ blue hair. Electric, almost.

“Eric!” Peter seemed to suddenly remember his friend, because he turned around, hands clasped with Lex’s, and pointed to his boyfriend with a beaming expression. “This is Lex.”

“His hair is blue,” Eric said, still unable to think of anything else.

Reaching up to pat his hair as though to check that it was, indeed, blue, Lex smirked and raised his eyebrows. “Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

“Why _blue_?” Eric wondered aloud, still gaping at his hair, which was still very, very blue.

“Because I like blue,” Lex replied with a shrug. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Eric had been about to point out that the fleeting idea of one minute was often the regret of the next, but Peter seemed to predict the sentiment and distracted him by forcibly pulling him aside so that Wyatt could climb out of the car behind him.

“Oh, right,” Peter said to Lex suddenly as Wyatt finally descended from the rental car. He was still grinning madly.  “Would you like to meet the band?”

With a surprised look, Lex glanced at Eric before saying, “I thought you just knew the roadie?”

Peter covered his face with one hand and groaned, “Lex, don’t you keep up on _anything_?”

“Uh.” Sheepishly, Lex scratched the back of his head and said, “Not really? Sorry, Pete.”

“It’s fine,” Peter said, his grin bouncing back into place. He still seemed to be recovering from the sensory overload having hung out with his favorite band for an entire two days. After standing on his tip-toes to kiss Lex’s cheek sweetly, he turned back to Eric and gave him an apologetic smile. “I’m gonna hang out in the crowd tonight, if that’s okay with you.”

“Uh.” Feeling aempty pang somewhere in the region of his chest, Eric nodded numbly and ignored the bitterness rolling around his stomach. He felt like Peter should have been paying attention to _him_ , dammit, because he was only going to be here for three days, but Lex had been thoughtful enough to spring a surprise visit, so he probably deserved some attention for that.

“Eric?” Peter prompted, and Eric suddenly became aware that he’d been staring blankly into space for quite some time.

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll see you afterwards, okay?”

“Sure,” Peter agreed, shyly clutching Lex’s hand, and waved. “I’m gonna go get in line now. Am I still on the list?”

Eric didn’t think he could talk through the disappointment, so he just nodded instead and watched as his best friend turned his back on him. Literally, not figuratively – although maybe that, too.

He didn’t realize how long he’d been standing there, vacantly looking at the crowd of people threading around the building, until Wyatt’s hand came down on his shoulder.

“Hey,” Wyatt, looking down at him with a concerned frown. “You gonna go in, or what?”

“Yeah,” Eric replied, lacking the energy to shake him off, and they walked into the venue side by side.

 

* * *

 

Eric’s bitterness lasted about as long as the concert, because that was when Peter came bounding backstage, which was the most energy the rest of the band had seen him display since his arrival.

“You look pretty cool from the crowd,” he gushed. “Even with your purple polo.”

“It’s eggplant,” Eric insisted, adjusting his collar self-consciously. His mother, prim and proper to a fault, had been the one to buy him for it and explain the name. Eggplant, she had said, could be very becoming on young men of his coloring.

“Eggplant is still a shade of purple,” Peter teased, but quickly abandoned the line of mockery to give Eric a high five. “Seriously, you guys were so good.”

“Thanks,” Eric said, grinning so hard his cheeks kind of hurt. This was perhaps due to the absence of a certain blue-haired boyfriend who insisted stealing his best friend’s attention during the only three days of the year he got to see him. “Where’s Lex?” he asked despite the fact that he didn’t really care unless the answer was _not here_.

“He had to go home,” Peter explained, scrubbing one hand through his perpetually messy hair. His expression dimmed for a moment, but Eric was pleased when he brightened almost immediately and continued, “But he really liked the show.  You played even better than last night.”

The previous night, Peter had talked his ear off for a good hour about how awesome they’d been, so Eric assumed that _better than last night_ meant something in between _flawless_ and _godly_.

Throwing his arm around Peter’s shoulder, Eric pulled him into a half-headlock, half-hug, and tried not to feel too smug. “Thanks. Also, now that Lex is gone, I have to tell you that his hair is hideous.”

“It is not!” Peter protested as he pried at Eric’s arm half-heartedly. Truthfully, he looked pleased at the attention, and he was still smiling when Eric began dragging him towards the back door.

“Is so,” Eric said, and was about to list all the reasons why Lex’s hair was completely revolting (number one, two, and three all being that it was _blue_ ), when he caught sight of James heading towards him. He was carrying a Sharpie, and it didn’t take long for Eric to piece together Sharpie and autographs. The mere thought of signing autographs for fans was enough to make Eric’s chest tighten and his palms sweat – it was the crush of all those people and all that attention being focused on _him_ – so he strengthened his grip on Peter’s arm and hauled him through a doorway to hide.

“Um, what was that for?” Peter asked after a few moments of stunned silence.

 “James,” Eric muttered with a fast, anxious glance beyond the threshold. James was standing outside with a perplexed expression, looking around him where Eric had stood moments before. After a few moments, he shrugged, visibly giving up, and left either in search of other bandmates or to meet the fans.

“James?” Peter echoed with a frown. “What’s wrong with him? He seems nice.”

Snorting, Eric turned to him and said, “Yeah, he _looks_ nice enough, but really he makes poisoned cookies and sacrifices you to fangirls.”

 “Whatever you say,” Peter said, completely used to Eric’s insane ramblings, and then glanced down at his phone as it rang noisily in his pocket.

“Who’s that?” Eric nosily tried to glimpse the screen.

Flipping open the screen, Peter squinted at it for a moment and then smiled. “It’s a text from Lex. How predictable.”

Eric rolled his eyes. “What, can’t he go five minutes without talking to you?”

Peter sent him a glare that clearly spoke volumes of a certain other person who texted him constantly.

“He was just telling me he got to the train station okay,” Peter explained after a few strained moments of glowering, and then sent back a quick response to his boyfriend before he stuffed his phone nnnin his pocket. “It’s nice to know he wasn’t mugged.”

“Mm,” Eric said, the guilt hitting him like a tangible wave. Peter made a good point. Nudging Peter’s leg with the tip of his shoe, he made an appropriately apologetic face and tilted his head to indicate the rental car parked at the curb. “Wanna wait in the car?”

“Sure,” Peter agreed, and Eric was flooded with a rush of gratitude that his best friend wasn’t the type to hold grudges.

“Sweet.” Tugging Peter along by his sleeve (he was so short that Eric sometimes felt like he would get lost), Eric pulled open the car door and said in an excited tone, “We can play tic-tac-toe.”

Peter nodded again, and Eric grinned as they slid into the car, already digging under the seat for the pad of paper. “I’m totally going to kill you this time,” Eric, at which Peter merely laughed.

It was really nice to have Peter here, Eric decided as he drew the lines for the tic-tac-toe board. If Peter asked him to, he would probably stomach the anxiety of a plane ride to visit him. That was true friendship as far as Eric was concerned: facing his fears for someone he cared about.

 

* * *

 

Eric had completely forgotten it was Thanksgiving until he and Peter had settled down in their hotel room, the blankets pulled down and pillows stacked high as Peter helped him navigate through the British channels. Eric had called it the English channel once and only once, because Peter had slugged him in the shoulder and told him his puns weren’t as funny as he thought they were. They were halfway through a random BBC program when someone started knocking.

“Hello?” London’s voice came through the door.

Rolling off the bed, Eric mumbled, “I’ll get it,” over his shoulder before he unlocked the door and flung it open. “What’s up?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his ankles.

“I just wanted to know if you guys were coming for Thanksgiving.” London pointed down the hall. “We rented a conference room on the first floor and told the hotel we were having a band meeting.” His smile turned vaguely sheepish. “I wasn’t sure how receptive they would be if I told them it was actually for Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Oh!” Peter brightened and hopped out of bed. “I completely forgot. I figured I wouldn’t have anybody to celebrate it with.”

“Um,” Eric mumbled, feeling completely blindsided, because he’d forgotten as well. His eyebrows furrowed, and he looked down at his socked toes and frowned. He would have to dig his shoes out of his pile of laundry before they went. “Okay. We’ll be there in a second.”

“You don’t need to put shoes on,” Peter, who knew Eric well enough to know exactly why he was hesitating, said as he pushed Eric into the hallway. “Come on, let’s go. This definitely beats watching BBC and eating gummy bears.”

Actually, Eric had eaten all the gummy bears already, but he figured it wasn’t wise to tell Peter that. “Okay,” he muttered, managing to look only slightly put out as he was jostled down the hallway and into the elevator.

“Why didn’t we do anything for Halloween?” Eric wondered aloud as the elevator dinged to signify the first floor.

London gave him a decidedly strange look as they filed into the hallway towards the conference room. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

“Halloween,” he said, waving his hand absently in the air. “Why didn’t we celebrate that?”

“We did,” London told him as he reached forward to open one of the double doors, beyond which were two tables: one laden with an assortment of food, the other surrounded by chairs occupied by the rest of the staff and band.

“What?” he squawked disbelief, stopping in the middle of the doorway. Behind him, Peter was unprepared for the abrupt halted and therefore plowed into his friend’s backside.

“Sorry,” Peter mumbled awkwardly as he pulled away, straightening his clothes and running a hand through his hair.

“It’s fine,” Eric mumbled off-handedly before turning his attention back to London. Meanwhile, Peter meekly slid past him to claim a seat next to James. “What do you mean, we celebrated Halloween? I think I would remember something like that.”

London just stared. “What did you think all the costumes were for?”

“ _Costumes_?” Eric repeated dumbly. “There were never any costumes.”

London looked baffled for a moment, and then opened his mouth to explain, but Mitch cut him off.

“We watched a movie,” he muttered around a forkful of what appeared to be cranberries. “ _Nightmare on Elm Street_. You went to bed.”

Eric’s eyes bulged in disbelief. “Are you _serious_?” He whirled on his heel to glare at London. “How come we didn’t do anything cool?”

Holding his hands in front of him in a defensive gesture, London was quick to say, “Don’t try to blame me. The staff was in charge of planning their own function.”

Before Eric could say anything, Peter reached out to snag Eric by the hem of his polo and forced him into the seat next to him. “Instead of complaining about the past, you should just eat some pie.”

“I don’t want any,” Eric grumbled, but he obediently snatched a plate and took a piece of pie – chocolate, not pumpkin – and started mechanically shoveling it into his mouth. It was delicious, but he stubbornly tried as hard as he could to act like he wasn’t enjoying it.

Peter, of course, knew exactly what he was doing, and he laughed softly to himself about it for a few moments before he decided it would probably be best not to draw any attention to it. Instead, he shifted in his chair to look at Simon, who was sitting across the table next to Mitch.

“So,” he said, squinting at him. “You’re Eric’s replacement.”

“Replacement is not the word,” Simon replied delicately as he poked at some bread pudding with his spoon. He looked rather unhappy with it, as though he were under the impression that he should _not_ be eating British food at Thanksgiving dinner.

Tilting his head, Peter gave him a confused look and asked, “What do you mean?”

“Well.” Simon tossed his spoon onto his plate with a smug smirk. “I’m better than the original, so it’s more appropriate to call me an upgrade.”

At that, Simon promptly got a face full of chocolate filling, courtesy of Eric’s fork.

“You totally deserved that,” Mitch commented as he reached over to drag Simon’s plate in front of him to eat the abused bread pudding. Apparently, he had no qualms with the nationality of the food, so long as it was in his stomach.

Calmly, Simon merely wiped his face with a napkin. “See,” he said to Peter with raised eyebrows. “That’s the kind of thing I’m talking about. I’m obviously superior.”

“Obviously,” Eric repeated with a sarcastic sneer.

Peter bit his lip to suppress a snicker as he sneakily took a bite of Eric’s pie. At this point, he felt that it was best not to talk anymore, lest he invoke Eric’s wrath.

“Anyway,” London murmured before another argument could break out. “Since last time someone was unaware of our overseas traveling—” all eyes turned to Eric, and Wyatt, who had up until this point managed to remain quiet, snorted into his glass of water “—I thought it best to remind everyone that we’re leaving for Tokyo on the twenty-fourth.”

With a considerable amount of force, Eric reached into the center of the table to spear a candied yam and shoved it into his mouth. He chewed sulkily and refused to look at anyone else until Peter nudged his shoulder and said, “Hey, you should buy me something from a vending machine while you’re there.”

Swallowing his mouthful of yam, Eric blinked at him before replying, “Can’t you just get it yourself?”

“No, Japan’s vending machines are special. They have, like, I don’t know.” Peter puffed out his cheeks as he tried to think of the right words. “Some of their vending machines just have really strange things. Like underwear and potted plants.”

Eric couldn’t seem to wrap his mind around that particular concept. “How do they get the potted plants to drop without them breaking?”

Wyatt, who seemed to have finished eating a while ago, leaned across the table to give Peter a conspiratorial wink. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll help him out.”

“Don’t help him too much,” Peter joked, “or there will be a million new rumors about you two dating.”

Wyatt choked a little. “Uh, what?”

“You know,” Peter man said, waving his arm in the air as he elaborated, “with the whole back thing, and the Skittles, and then he hit you with a door and you carried him into the airport anyway.”

Wyatt couldn’t help but stare. “So, what, do people think we’re in an abusive – er, partnership or something? Since when do Eric’s violent tendencies count as courtship?”

“Well.” Peter shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just what other people say.”

Scowling, Eric stuffed more food into his mouth and refused to comment.

Vigilant as ever, James noticed and graced Eric with one of his typical, friendly smiles and nudged a dish of stuffing in his direction. “Don’t get upset about it,” he said softly. “It doesn’t matter what the fans think, right?”

Eric just glared darkly. “Yes, it does,” he snapped. “If we didn’t have any fans, we wouldn’t have any _money_ , and then I would be pissed.”

“Actually,” interjected Peter shyly, “I think it does a lot for your fanbase. People, er….” He made a face as he tried to come up with a tactful way to put his next sentence. “People like that kind of thing,” he finished eventually.

 _That_ certainly caught London’s attention. His head snapped up from the piece of turkey he was eating, fork poised half-way to his mouth. “Wait,” he said, slowly lowering his food back to the plate. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah,” Peter replied with a dubious look. “Didn’t you realize that?”

With an embarrassed look (or as least as embarrassed as London would ever allow himself to appear), London shook his head. “Not particularly. I thought that an entirely homosexual band would turn people away.”

Fatty, who was living up to his nickname by eating a plateful of nearly each kind of food, abruptly looked up from the table with a stricken expression. “But I’m not gay.”

“Neither is James,” London pointed out, and then paused and turned to look at Eric. “Or Eric,” he  added as Eric’s face swiftly began to turn red. He mistakenly took it for embarrassment (rather than anger, which was the correct assumption) and sent him an apologetic look. “Sorry. I know you’re touchy about your masculinity.”

Eric slammed his hands down on the table before Peter could stop him. “I wouldn’t be if you would stop calling me gay!”

“Calm down,” James murmured. “It’s not a big deal if you’re gay.”

“Whatever,” Eric muttered, pushing his plate away. “I think I’m just going to take some pie upstairs with me or something. Happy Thanksgiving, guys.”

“You’re far too high-strung,” London noted primly, although he had a faint trace of regret in his voice.

Peter instantly shot London a subtle look that said _you’re not helping_ before he rose to his feet. “Okay, then,” he murmured to Eric, patting him on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

During the tour, Eric had grown rather used to people blowing up in the face of his unyielding obstinacy, so he looked up at Peter with a brief flicker of confusion before he nodded, pushing himself out of his chair. “Thanks,” he mumbled, suddenly almost embarrassed, and grabbed a fork and plate of whatever kind of pie was closest before ducking out into the hallway. Peter followed, and behind them, Eric could hear Wyatt flatly informing the manager what a dumbass he was.

And that made him smile all the way to his room.


	10. Chapter 10

At the third England show, Eric rediscovered the joys of tendonitis and remembered why he’d given up on becoming a concert pianist. His fingers just weren’t used to that much activity, and performing nearly every day at a high difficulty level was more than they could take. Unfortunately, Eric didn’t know this until he was rubbing at his wrists before the show, frowning and making grumpy faces at what he thought was just a sore muscle. Once he sat down at the piano, well—

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself during a break between songs. Wyatt sent him a surprised, almost horrified look, and Eric belatedly realized his microphone was on. Ducking his head, he pretended he hadn’t said anything and concentrated on massaging the underside of each wrist, cringing at each finger movement.

During the next song, he messed up more times than he could count simply because moving his fingers meant flaring goddamn agony. He tried to mask it by simplifying runs and chords, and sent James and Wyatt grateful glances when they covered his more hideous blunders.

He didn’t even make it to the encore. The second the band left the stage, he quickly and quietly went outside, where he leaned against the wall, clutching his wrist and feeling stupid. Almost immediately afterward, Peter came skidding out, biting his lip and looking concerned.

“Eric,” Peter said once he spotted him. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” he forced out between gritted teeth. As long as he didn’t move his fingers, there wasn’t any pain, so he slowly straightened and tossed his hair out of his face.

Peter, of course, wasn’t buying it. Narrowing his eyes, he reached out to grab Eric’s hand – he must have seen Eric rubbing it at some point – and turned it over, inspecting it with a very serious expression. There was nothing visibly wrong with Eric, however, so Peter eventually dropped his friend’s wrist with a frown.

“Okay,” Peter said, almost hesitantly, as though it was a difficult word for him to process. “What happened out there, then? I’ve never seen you, uh…” He trailed off, because there really wasn’t a polite way to tell anyone that they had totally tanked during a performance, so he settled for wrinkling his nose.

“Yeah,” Eric mumbled, looking immensely embarrassed and displeased and bitter at the same time. Rolling his shoulders in a shrug, he put his hands in his pockets, careful to move his fingers as little as possible. “I don’t know,” he lied. “It was like once I started messing up, I just couldn’t stop.”

Peter still didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t seem to want to start an argument, so he merely pursed his lips and nodded.

They waited in silence after that, both of them with their backs against the wall, Peter absently pulling out his phone to text Lex as he rode the train home. Eric would have gone to find his DS, but he was afraid to flex his fingers inside his pockets, let alone play Tetris, so he decided it was best to just stare into the distance and ignore the world around him.

That didn’t last long, however, as the band finished the encore and Wyatt came storming out. At first, Eric thought he was pissed, but then he caught a flash apprehension behind the hazel blaze. He didn’t much time to dwell on it, though, because the next thing he knew, Wyatt was grabbing his arm and insisting, “Let me see your hands.”

“Get off me,” Eric hissed, trying to jerk himself away without moving his fingers – which predictably ended in disaster, with Wyatt pulling one hand out of Eric’s pocket and bending his fingers back. “Fuck!”

Wyatt gave him a half-annoyed, half-sympathetic look. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I did,” growled Eric as he irately snatched his hand back to cradle it against his chest. “I just _said_ to _get off me_.”

“I meant about this,” Wyatt clarified as he moved forward to press the pad of one of Eric’s fingers, pushing it back and forth, watching the other man’s face as Eric cringed appropriately.

Suddenly, Peter surprised them both by reaching up to knock Wyatt away. “Stop that,” he snapped, looking furious. “You’re hurting him.”

Wyatt seemed rather taken aback by Peter’s outburst. “Yeah, but it’s not supposed to hurt,” he attempted to defend himself. “That’s the point.”

Mouth tightened in a frown, Peter gave him a fierce, angry stare and said, “That doesn’t mean you have to torture him.”

Wyatt was beginning to look guilty. “I wasn’t trying to hurt him,” he replied, glancing at Eric almost ashamedly. “I was just testing him to see what was wrong.”

“You could have asked,” Eric suddenly jumped into the conversation.

However, he had not yet been spared from Peter’s ire, because Peter immediately transferred his disapproving gaze to Eric. “ _I_ asked,” he pointed out. “And you lied to me.”

“Not really,” Eric mumbled, turning his head so he wouldn’t be subjected to Peter’s disappointed glare. “I said nothing happened, which is true,” he pressed on, even as Peter frowned. “There’s nothing wrong with me. I’ll be fine.”

“Nothing?” Wyatt snorted. “You looked like you were going to cry out there. You can’t play like this.”

Rolling his eyes, Eric angled his body entirely away from them, trying to ignore the stirring of bitterness in his stomach. “No wonder you’re so concerned,” he muttered. “Sorry. I guess you’ll just have to play a few sets without a keyboardist.”

“That’s not it.” Wyatt looked stricken, but he didn’t get the chance to say anything else, because London and the rest of the band burst out the back door with varying expressions of concern.

“Eric,” London said, sounding breathless, as though he’d been searching for him for quite some time. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Something’s wrong with his wrists,” Wyatt said. “Or his fingers. I don’t know. He kept rubbing his wrists during the show.”

Eric wanted to know when Wyatt had found the time to notice that, but he held his tongue on the matter. “It doesn’t matter,” he insisted. “I’m fine.”

London gave him a stern look that bordered on fatherly. “Listen, Eric,” he began. “I think we should get you checked out before the flight to Tokyo. Or we could postpone it.”

Eric didn’t need a doctor. He knew exactly what was wrong and how to deal with it. What he didn’t need was everyone swarming all over him and drawing attention to it. “Don’t be stupid,” he said, discreetly wiggling his fingers to check just how bad the tendonitis was, and barely suppressed a grimace. “I’m telling you, it’ll go away on its own.”

London groaned at his obstinacy and rubbed his face in exasperation. “At this rate, we might as well have a doctor on staff.”

“Just get me some wrist splints,” Eric muttered. Peter gave him a surprised look as though he’d finally remembered the great Concert Pianist Wrist Tendonitis Debacle, which Eric pointedly ignored. “Or some Ace bandage wraps.”

“What—” London started, but Eric cut him off.

 “Just fucking do it, okay? I’ll probably be knocked out the whole Tokyo flight—” here, he contained a shudder at the very thought of airplanes “—and I’ll be good to go.”

“You might want to get him some Aspirin, too,” Peter added carefully.

London looked like he was about to say something else but paused, his eyes flickering between them suspiciously. Then he abruptly gave a curt nod and dropped the subject.

“Anyway,” London murmured, idly straightening his shirt and brushing off a few pieces of invisible lint. “The rental cars are waiting, so let’s get going.” He looked over his shoulder at James and raised a single eyebrow. “Do you think it would be okay to skip autographs for one night to get medical supplies for Eric?”

With a mildly reluctant glance at the throng of fans barely contained behind a nearby railing, James sighed and nodded. “If we want to make it on time, we might have to.”

Medical supply store, European version of Walgreens, whatever. Eric just wanted to get out of there. “Now that we’re all done making a big deal over nothing,” he said, pushing Peter toward the curb where the rental cars were, “I would like to go to the hotel and get some sleep and _not_ think about dying tomorrow at twenty thousand feet.”

 

* * *

 

Eric didn’t remember much of Peter’s departure, since he’d taken his sedatives in preparation for the trip to Tokyo. He spent much of the morning stumbling around and slurring his speech. In fact, he didn’t really seem to realize his friend had left until he was in the air, sitting next to Wyatt in a cramped seat with his head on Wyatt’s shoulder.

“Christ,” Eric swore as he abruptly jerked awake, hurled into disorientation, and looked around with blurry eyes. His wrists were in ugly tan splints, making it impossible to do anything except stiffly lift his fingers. His brain felt like cotton, and the gray cells whirred slowly as he stared at the side of Wyatt’s face until he realized he’d been _sleeping_ on him.

“Morning, sunshine,” Wyatt drawled. “I was afraid you were going to start drooling on me.”

“Mm,” Eric said disinterestedly, giving his fingers an experimental flex, cringed. His wrists hadn’t hurt like this since high school, when he’d still had the stupid idea he could actually make a living off of music – which he apparently could, but not without still crippling his fingers. At least he could go back to being a roadie if he had to give up playing in the band.

“So, do you want another sedative, or are you calm enough to wait a while?” asked Wyatt.

 Eric paused, considering this. If he was unconscious, Wyatt would have free reign, meaning he could molest Eric’s body without his consent. However, London, James, and Fatty were on the plane, and Eric sincerely doubted they would let anything happen to him. At the very least, London would step up and be responsible. So he nodded, holding out his palm, and said, “Lay it on me. If it’s all the same for you, I’d rather be passed out for our time together.”

“Whatever,” Wyatt muttered as he leaned forward to rifle through his carry-on, which he’d stashed between his feet. He came back up with the little orange bottle in hand, and he reached out to shake a white pill into Eric’s palm but paused when he realized the wrist splint prevented that. “Uh,” he said, looking awkward.

Eric just rolled his eyes and reached forward to pinch the sedative between his fingers and swallowed it dry.

“It’s going to get stuck in your throat that way,” Wyatt said with a frown as he held out his little airplane cup of ice and cola. “Drink some of this.”

“I’m fine,” Eric said, burrowing into the seat. It seemed like it was becoming his mantra, even though it was never true. He really wanted a blanket, or a pillow, but he had neither, so he settled for crossing his arms and tilting his head away from Wyatt.

“What’s your deal?” Wyatt snapped.  “I don’t know what I did to you, but I don’t deserve this.”

Eric’s back stiffened into one long, unfriendly line, and he slowly looked at Wyatt over his shoulder like he couldn’t believe what he was saying. “You don’t know what you did to me?”

Wyatt narrowed his eyes. “No.”

He almost felt like laughing. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Maybe if you wanted me to be nice to you, you shouldn’t have sexually harassed me from day one. You’re lucky you’re famous and I didn’t call HR on your arrogant ass.”

Wyatt’s jaw nearly dropped. “Sexually— _what_? I was nice to you! Jesus, hasn’t anyone ever flirted with you before? I _liked_ you!”

Eric glared and tried to maintain his anger, but a memory rose to the top of his consciousness, unbidden.

 _You’re mean to me all the time, and all I did was_ like _you! I was nice to you! I fucking_ smiled _, and…_

“Ugh,” Eric said, throwing himself down against his seat and re-facing the opposite direction.

“What was that?” Wyatt asked with a dangerous look. “I swear to God, if you just told me to fuck off…” he trailed off threateningly.

“No,” he said, feeling empty and deflated all of a sudden. “Just forget it. If you were just flirting, then I think I need to tell you to take the intensity down from 10 to about 2.” He paused, gnawing his lip, and then added, “Thanks for carrying my sedatives around.”

“Um,” Wyatt said, sounding taken aback. “You’re welcome.”

After that, Eric busied himself with lowering and raising his food tray with his knee, which was probably annoying as fuck, but he really couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment. His brain felt intense and uncertain all at once, and he couldn’t get his thoughts to go where he wanted fast enough. It was like trying to run underwater.

Worst of all, that tingly feeling was back, and the next sedative hadn’t even kicked in yet. It was incredibly frustrating.

 _Maybe it’s just the after-effects of the last dose_ , he told himself, and allowed himself to finally recline his seat and relax. He automatically reached for his phone in his pocket and then frowned to himself as he remembered he was on an airplane and couldn’t text Peter. And then he realized that it wouldn’t even matter, because he was wearing fucking splints, and that sucked beyond all reasonable human comprehension. He couldn’t even play Tetris.

“Entertain me,” he declared eventually, bumping Wyatt’s shoulder in a way that was, he hoped, more forceful than pleading. And not at all flirtatious. He was trying to make amends, here, not climb into bed with him.

Wyatt stared at him. “What?”

“Entertain me,” Eric repeated, feeling the first tendrils of embarrassment creeping up his back.

“Why should I?” Wyatt laughed, looking more amused than irritated as he reached to push his glasses further up onto the bridge of his nose.

“Because I said so,” he said. “It’s not like I can amuse _myself_ , you know.”

 “Then how have you survived the past nineteen years?”

“Twenty,” he corrected snappishly. “Shouldn’t you know the age of the person you’re supposedly courting?”

Wyatt at least had the decency to look sheepish. “Sorry,” he said, scrubbing a hand through his hair. It had begun to look a little shaggy, the ends flipping out somewhat to the side. It was Eric’s strong opinion that he should get a haircut before the first Tokyo show.

“Forget it,” he said, pulling his attention away from his hair and back to his food tray. Up, down, up, down—

Wyatt put his hand over Eric’s to prevent him from further annoying the fuck out of the other passengers.“I think that’s enough of that. How should I amuse you?”

 “Er.” Eric jerked his hand away and shoved it in his pocket, blushing. “I don’t know. Surprise me.”

“All right, then.” Wyatt stared at him with a thoughtful expression and then ducked to paw around in his bag. After much rummaging, he rose victoriously with a legal pad and a pen. Eric gave him a confused look, but Wyatt merely grinned. “You’re going to help me write a new song,” he declared.

Eric wrinkled his nose in distaste. “How is that even remotely fun?”

“I dunno,” Wyatt admitted, uncapping the pen with his teeth. He spat the cap out to the side, dangerously close to Eric’s lap, and tossed him a smug smirk. “Don’t worry, though. I’m a musical genius, so I’m sure I can think of something.”

Eric raised his eyebrows in something close to amusement. “Okay, _Simon_ ,” he said.

“Hey!” Wyatt complained in mock-offense. “My ego’s not _that_ bad.”

“Whatever,” Eric snorted. “You keep telling yourself that.”

They worked in relative harmony after that. “Relative” for them being closer to “mildly disruptive” for normal people. The rest of the plane kept sending them dirty annoyed looks, but London quickly and calmly explained to the stewardesses who, exactly, the two quarreling men in the second row were, and Eric and Wyatt were mercifully left alone. But they wouldn’t have cared either way, because they were too deeply involved in their banter (and, eventually, the song Eric grudgingly helped compose) to care.

Eventually, however, the sedative kicked in and Eric’s movements grew sluggish, and ultimately he was forced to concede to sleep. And as he drifted off, he was surprised by the thought that he wouldn’t have minded staying awake a little while longer, even if it was on a death trap.

When he woke up, he was practically in Wyatt’s lap, one arm thrown around his waist and the other dangling dangerously in the aisle. He was embarrassed enough to feign sleep until the plane landed and Wyatt gently pushed him up to unbuckle his seatbelt. And even then, Eric pretended to have not noticed a single thing, and he yawned and stretched without comment.

Beyond the humiliation, though, was the overwhelming fear that someone else had seen. With the wrist splints and incessant throbbing discomfort, dealing with bullshit rumors was the last thing he needed. Especially when they were absolutely 100% _un_ founded.

 

* * *

 

The most confusing thing about Tokyo was the sidewalks. They weren’t high-tech conveyor belts or anything crazy like that – people just walked on the opposite side and Eric, despite having already run over three teenage girls in sailor uniforms, kept forgetting this. He’d been expecting stereotypically short people, but all the men were his height or taller, and he had the crushing fear that he was going to get lost in the crowd. It might not have been so bad if London had been with their group, but he had taken a train to meet with the venue staffs before the shows, so James was temporarily in charge.

Normally, James was a pretty reliable guy, so putting him in charge of the map was a strong move. But London had failed to consider the fact that this was Japan, and they had crazy all-way intersections (no, seriously, like you could cross the street at _any angle you wanted_ ), and James was struggling. Not to mention it was fucking cold and Eric had to rub his stupid wrist splints over his arms just to keep warm while cute Japanese girls bounced around in adorably fuzzy boots and parkas.

“This is stupid,” Eric said as they passed what he had mentally dubbed the Giant Poo Building. It was literally a building with what looked like a huge golden turd on top. Eric kind of liked it.  “Let’s just stop and ask for directions.”

“Oh, sure, I’d be happy to,” James replied drily. “I’ll just suddenly learn Japanese and we’ll be on our merry way.”

“What kind of American are you?” Eric scoffed. “First rule of being privileged: Assume everyone else speaks your language.” To demonstrate, he flagged down a man in a suit, ignoring the fact that he was on his cell phone, and said, “Excuse me! Sir! Could you tell us how to get to HO-TEL NEW O-TA-NI THE MAIN?”

Behind him, Wyatt winced and rubbed his ears. “They’re not deaf, you know.”

The business man ducked his head and hurried past, clutching his phone to his ear. Eric yelled after him, “ _HO-TEL NEW O-TA-NI THE MAIN_!” but to no avail.

Wyatt punched his shoulder. “Seriously, Eric. Japanese. Not deaf.”

Huffing, Eric crossed his arms and kept walking. “I’d like to see you do better.”

“Fine.” He snatched the map from James and squinted at it. “It’s in the middle of downtown.” He pointed to a squiggle on the map. “And we’re here.” A more street-looking squiggle. “So we go that way.” He pointed randomly. Looking satisfied, he rolled up the map, stuck it under his arm, and declared, “Let’s go.”

But before they could move on, another man came up and said, “Please, excuse me, you are going the wrong way. The hotel is there.” He directed them to a lovely multi-windowed hotel with a waterfall in front across the street.

 “Oh,” Wyatt said dumbly. The map drifted slowly to the ground. “You speak English?”

 “Yes. We must take it in school.” He smiled. “Also, your friend is very loud. In Japan, we have manners.” With that, he bowed out and was on his way.

Eric would have been offended, but he was too busy being smug. First of all, Wyatt was just as directionally challenged, and secondly—

“See,” he said, smirking as they walked toward the hotel, “I told you they speak English.”

 

* * *

 

No matter how many times Eric roomed with James (which had actually only been about two or three times), James never failed to freak him out. And not in Simon’s crazy insomniac way, or Fatty’s, uh, Fatty way, but rather in the nothing- _ever_ -fazed-him way. This wouldn’t have been a big deal except for the fact that Eric was very good at discovering people’s pet peeves. For example, Mitch hated it when  Eric texted while they were talking, so Eric made it a point to bombard Peter with messages every time Mitch and he had a conversation.

James, however, was upset bynothing. Eric had tested this hypothesis on several occasions – leaving wet towels on the floor, sitting on James’s bed with his shoes on, and even pretending to snore loudly during the middle of the night. And throughout all of this, James simply smiled as he always did and serenely went about his business.

Eric was about ninety percent sure he was a robot.

“You should do something other than sit in bed all night,” James-the-robot suggested, glancing where Eric was huddled in a mound of blankets, watching a Japanese game show. From what he could gather, you had to answer a question correctly or you got hit in the nuts. It was strangely mesmerizing even though it made him cringe in sympathy.

His attention was drawn to James, however, as he kept looking at him. Eric began to imagine the mechanical joints in his jaw and wondered where exactly he kept the motorized voice box hidden.

Raising what Eric was certain was a mechanical eyebrow, James asked in a bemused tone, “Did you hear me?”

Eric shook himself out of his robot-induced daze and blinked. “Uh, yeah,” he said, letting the blankets fall away from his shoulders. “I don’t have anything to do, though.”

James paused at that, his expression growing thoughtful, and he seemed to have finally come up with an idea when there came a fortuitously-timed knock at the door.

“Who is it?” Eric yelled.

“Wyatt,” came the flat response through the door.

“Oh.” Eric flopped on top of his discarded covers and sighed. “What do you want?”

James gave him a disapproving tsk as he passed him to open the door. It was indeed Wyatt in the hall, framed in the yellow light from the hallway, dressed down for once – jeans and a T-shirt, which was quite a contrast from his typical performance clothes.

“What’s up?” James asked.

“Oh, not much,” Wyatt replied, distracted, and stood on his tip-toes to look over James’s shoulder at Eric splayed across one of the beds. His was quickly distracted, however, by a bright flash from the game show, and he turned his attention to it with an expression akin to horror. “What the hell is that?”

Eric winced at the TV. “That’s a guy getting hit in the nuts.”

Open-mouthed, Wyatt pushed James aside to stand in front of Eric’s bed and watch the television. “This is insane.”

“Tell me about it,” Eric muttered, scooting sideways to see around him. “So why are you here?”

“Oh, right,” Wyatt said, snapping his fingers as though suddenly recalling something. “I told Peter I’d help you get him a potted plant or underwear or something from a vending machine, remember?”

“Huh,” Eric responded, looking surprised. He hadn’t remembered, actually. “Why are you going with me?”

Wyatt gave him a look like it should have been obvious. “To keep you from getting lost.”

“Ah,” said James with an approving nod before Eric could explode. Digging momentarily in his back pocket, he produced the slightly-beaten map of Tokyo and beamed as he handed it to Wyatt. “This should help.”

Wyatt took the map with an appreciative smile, tucking it away in his pocket. “Ready to go, then?” he said to Eric.

Decisions, decisions: spend a night stuck in a hotel room with a robot, or hit up Tokyo for some panties with a pervert? The howls of a man getting nailed in the crotch quickly made up his mind for him.

“Let me put on my shoes.”

 

* * *

 

Amazingly enough, the two men made it back to the hotel unscathed, a fern and two pairs of underwear in hand. The items weren’t from a vending machine, but there was a mutual agreement to lie and tell Peter that they were. Both of them wore matching expressions of fatigue as they piled into the elevator at the end of a long day.

“That plant is tickling my nose,” Wyatt complained, trying to angle his face so that the fern wasn’t trying to climb into his nostril. “Can’t you move it?”

“Can’t _you_ move?” Eric shot back. For such a small fern, it sure was unwieldy, and he wasn’t sure how to adjust his grip on it without losing it.

“I already did,” Wyatt said as he wrinkled his nose.

“Then you’ll just have to deal with it for another few floors,” Eric said, craning his neck to look at the floor display. Floor two, three, four…

“Fine,” Wyatt replied flatly, discreetly bumping his foot against Eric in the best kick he could manage in such close quarters. “How are you going to take that thing on the plane, anyway?”

Shrugging, Eric said, “London will take care of it,” and left it at that. London had become rather adept in the ways of bitching people out – er, _compromising_ – so that band members could be properly accommodated. Most recently Eric, what with the sedatives and wrist splints and such.

Wyatt seemed to accept that, because he fell quiet afterwards, only moving to stuff the underwear under his shirt when he noticed an old lady with a scarf on her head giving him a questioning glance. When he noticed, Eric laughed sadistically all the way to their floor.

“Way to repay me for escorting you,” Wyatt muttered as the elevator let out a happy ding and the doors swished open.

They stepped into the hallway and Eric grinned. “Not my fault you’re an old pervert.”

“Shut up, shut up! I am not! What if someone hears you?”

“Then they’ll have learned the English word for pervert,” Eric cackled.

Pulling the packages of undies out from under his shirt, Wyatt made the wise decision to remain quiet until they reached the door. “Here,” he said, thrusting the panties into the fern’s flower pot. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Eric nodded, feeling a brief pang of guilt at Wyatt’s newly sulky disposition.  “Okay,” he said, then transferred the fern in an awkward one-handed hold and pulled his key card out of his pocket. “Um. Bye.”

“Bye,” Wyatt replied, almost too quickly, and turned on his heel to return to his room.

Eric watched him go, hesitating with his hand on the knob, and frowned before going inside. The lights were off and the curtains were drawn, so he flicked on a lamp as he toed off his shoes. Glancing around the room, he found a bed-side table to deposit his vending machine purchases and hoped James liked ferns.

“Have a good night,” he said softly, even though he knew Wyatt was too far away to hear.


	11. Chapter 11

The Tokyo show was hands down the best show of the tour so far, despite Eric’s flaring tendonitis and Wyatt’s sulky mood. The fact that their second to last performance was also their greatest was almost sad. However, they couldn’t bring themselves to care, because a good concert was still a good concert, and everyone was looking forward to their last show in Osaka.

Unfortunately, the drive to Osaka ranked right up there with Drunken Karaoke Night and The Morning After on Eric’s top ten list of Worst Things to Ever Happen. At first, it seemed as though the trip was perfect. Wyatt was in a different car, James and Fatty were blissfully silent, and London was dozing in the front seat. As far as Eric was concerned, everything was awesome.

His first tip that this would be the Drive from Hell probably should have been the fact that their driver was either deaf or only understood broken English. Originally, Eric didn’t foresee this as much as a problem, because seriously, what did speaking English have to do with driving a car? Absolutely nothing, he figured. However, it quickly proved to be a problem when Eric discovered he had to pee. Desperately.

“London,” he hissed after the fourth attempt to get the driver’s attention. Upon a lack of response, he reached forward to punch the manager’s arm, scowling at Fatty and James’s laughter in the background. He didn’t see what was so fucking funny about a bladder emergency.

Stirring abruptly in his seat, London jerked his head around in confusion before his gaze settled on Eric. He rubbed a hand over his face and blinked a few times before he asked, “What is it?”

“I’m having a pee attack, and the driver doesn’t understand the words piss, pee, or bladder _explosion_ ,” the blond said with a note of hysteria in his voice. “Help me.”

“Uh,” London said, looking decidedly awkward, and nodded once before he leaned over to speak to driver in what was probably rapid, broken Japanese. The tiny driver glanced over his shoulder at the backseat passengers before making an apologetic face, and then he nodded and turned the wheel to pull over.

This, of course, meant that the _entire_ line of tour cars had to pull over, and everybody quickly found out about Eric’s walnut-sized bladder. He didn’t really have time to be embarrassed, though, because his bladder was too busy trying to burst. It wasn’t until he slid back into his seat that he realized James and Fatty were still containing silent laughter.

“Shut up,” he muttered, punching London’s headrest in frustration (who jumped, looking both shocked and offended), and refused to look at anyone the rest of the ride.

Things only went downhill from there.

“We just should have taken the train,” Eric moaned, pee crisis averted, and stretched his legs obnoxiously on top of London’s headrest. “This is fucking _torture_.”

“You’re telling me,” Fatty mumbled, looking morosely out the window with his arms folded across his chest.

London turned around in his seat to give both of them a reproving glare. “We _do_ have a budget, you know.”

Scoffing, Eric motioned to the two musicians at his side and said, “Hello, this band has been famous for like, three years. You’d think you’d be a _little_ more lenient with your money.”

The manager stiffened in his seat. “Well, if you’d like a smaller paycheck, then sure.”

“Whatever,” the blond muttered irately, kicking London’s headrest again, and began planning all the ways he could irritate the gray-eyed man during the remaining four hours to Osaka. Ironically enough, it was during this, the one time Eric hadn’t been trying, that he actually discovered James’s pet peeve.

“Will you _please_ stop fidgeting?” the bassist snapped for the fourth time in the past ten minutes. “It’s not going to make the ride go any faster, and this is an enclosed space, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh, really?” drawled the other man sarcastically as he continued to jiggle his leg up and down compulsively. “Thanks for pointing that out, James. I never would have figured it out myself.”

James stared at his leg with the most spite Eric had ever witnessed in one of his expressions. “Please,” he forced out through gritted teeth. “Stop that. You’re shaking the entire seat, and I would _quite_ prefer—”

“I would _quite_ prefer that you shut the fuck up,” Eric cut him off mockingly. “I’m bored as fuck, and—”

“Fuck?” Raising his eyebrows, James leaned forward and continued, “And exactly how bored _is_ fuck? Your profanity isn’t exactly as descriptive as you may think it is.”

“For your information, fuck means I am _exceedingly_ bored, which is why I chose it as a comparison for the way I feel about this crappy trip,” said the blond with a scowl. “I thought you might be _sympathetic_ , since I’m fucking _crippled_ , here—” he shook his wrist splints in the freckled man’s face as emphasis “—but apparently you can only be nice for three hour intervals before you turn into a bitch queen.”

“A bitch queen,” James repeated in an uncharacteristically icy tone. “You’re one to talk.”

And that was when London finally woke up from his second nap of the trip, looking behind him at the unfolding chaos in shock, and quickly said something to the driver. Moments later, the car was pulled over, and London was leading Eric out by the arm.

“Go switch places with Simon,” he ordered sternly. “He’s in the second car with Wyatt and Mitch, and don’t you _dare_ try to complain,” he growled as he noticed Eric’s face tightening in fury. “I have _never_ seen anyone rouse James’s temper before,” continued the manager unhappily, “and I never want to see it again. So go sit in the second car and please, for the love of _God_ , don’t cause anyone bodily harm.”

Properly chastised and unbelievably angry, Eric nodded and jerked his arm away before stomping off to the car behind him. No one seemed surprised when he yanked the door open and growled, “Get out, Simon,” which only pissed him off further.

After a brief, almost frightened look, the roadie scrambled out of the backseat and held the door open. Eric shot him a dirty look and slid in, looking ruffled and miserable. Wyatt appeared rather curious, but luckily he was intelligent to keep his mouth shut for the time being. Unfortunately, there were still two hours left in the drive, and eventually Wyatt could no longer contain his curiosity.

“So,” the redhead began as sensitively as possible, darting a glance in the svelte blond’s direction. “What happened?”

Eric, who had his arms and legs crossed as tightly as physically possible, spared him a furious look and spat, “I _don’t_ want to talk about it.”

Holding his hands up defensively, Wyatt leaned away from the pianist and said, “Okay, okay. Sorry.” And then he managed to keep quiet for another ten minutes before he blurted, “If you ever _do_ want to talk about it—”

“I don’t, I won’t, and I never will,” he hissed. “So please just keep your fake sympathy, kindness, _whatever_ the fuck this is to your goddamn self.”

“It’s not fake,” Wyatt mumbled under his breath, nearly inaudible. Eric frowned but did not comment, for which the redhead was most grateful. The last thing he wanted to do was infuriate the younger man, especially when it was Wyatt’s turn to room with him in Osaka.

 

* * *

 

After such a disastrous drive, all Eric wanted to do was collapse in his bed and hide under the covers until the show. However, at Wyatt’s insistence, what he ended up doing was watering Peter’s fern and joining the other man for a late dinner.

“I hate sushi,” the blond complained without his usual heat as he broke his chopsticks in two and poked disinterestedly at a roll of something he couldn’t pronounce. That was a complete lie, of course, because Eric actually loved sushi, and he was a chopstick master, even with wrist splints. However, he was grumpy enough after the car ride from hell to declare his loathing of every single person or object within his sight, and that included sushi at this moment.

Wyatt, who was not quite as skilled as Eric with chopsticks, fumbled and dropped a piece of sushi just as it was nearing his mouth. He looked down at the roll mournfully where it had landed in his lap before he tossed his chopsticks onto the table and picked it up with his bare hands. “Sorry,” he offered to Eric with an only mildly sympathetic look, just before he shoved the food into his mouth.

Eric watched with his nose wrinkled in distaste. “You’re so uncultured,” he muttered, observing as Wyatt picked up another piece with his fingers and held it up for inspection.

“What is this?” the redhead wondered, completely ignoring the other man’s insult.

Rolling his eyes, Eric didn’t even look at the sushi roll as he threw out a blind guess. “Tuna.”

“Ah,” Wyatt, obviously _completely_ inexperienced in the ways of Japanese cuisine, nodded before popping it into his mouth. “It’s good,” he said as he chewed.

Eric covered his eyes with his fingers, peeking out in disgust. “That’s gross.”

Shrugging, Wyatt licked his fingers and mumbled, “So what? If anyone’s complaining, I can’t understand them, so it’s all good in my book.”

The blond narrowed his eyes irritably. “ _I’m_ complaining about you,” he pointed out in a petulant tone.

“Ah.” With a roguish grin, Wyatt flicked a piece of rice at the smaller man and asked, “But do I really _care_?” And then he seemed to realize that Eric was getting angry again, because he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and gave the pianist a contrite look. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ll try to be more, uh, cultured.”

 _That_ certainly caught Eric off guard. He spent a few minutes blinking, his chopsticks poised halfway to his mouth with a sushi roll, before he gave a slow nod and replied, “Okay. Thanks.”

“No problem,” the older man replied without missing a beat. He finished his sushi well before Eric, so he spent his remaining time looking around the restaurant with waning interest before he started drumming on the table with his chopsticks. At Eric’s peevish look, however, he quickly stopped and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“What are you going to do after the tour?” Eric asked, suddenly feeling compelled to fill the abrupt silence. It wasn’t completely random, of course, because Wyatt’s answer would affect his own – if the band planned to record immediately afterwards, he wanted to know if he would be involved. If not…

“Nothing,” the redhead replied with a satisfied grin. “Absolutely nothing. For an entire month.”

Tilting his head, Eric made a confused face and pressed, “What do you mean, nothing?”

“Down-time,” he said, looking pleased by the mere thought of it, and began spinning his plate on the table. “As soon as we land tomorrow, I’m going back to Milwaukee to see Avery and maybe Morgan, and then I’ll mooch off them for a few weeks before we start recording.”

“Oh,” Eric replied dully, feeling a strange emptiness in his stomach.

Recognizing the fact that he couldn’t stop fidgeting, Wyatt finally sat on his hands, flashing Eric a briefly embarrassed look. He quickly followed it up by asking, “What about you?”

The blond furrowed his eyebrows as he realized he didn’t actually know. “Go home,” he said eventually, frowning. He really didn’t _want_ to go home, but he supposed he had nowhere else to go. “At least I’ll finally be to pay the rent.”

Wyatt laughed a little. “Yeah, that’s always a good thing.”

“Mm,” replied the smaller man noncommittally.

Silence fell over them again, during which Wyatt seemed to undergo a fierce internal battle with his compulsion to squirm as much as possible. Eric had no idea what was making him so restless, but he suddenly understood why James had become so enraged on the drive down. Narrowing his eyes, Eric kicked the other man under the table and muttered, “Stop that.”

Wyatt grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. I just get nervous in foreign countries.”

Eric squinted at him with a decidedly suspicious expression. “Reaaaally,” he drawled. “How come I didn’t notice in England?”

“They still speak English there,” the singer noted.

“True,” the blond allowed, his doubt assuaged, and leaned back in his chair. He wasn’t hungry anymore. “Are you ready to go?” he asked.

Instantly jumping to his feet, Wyatt nodded eagerly and said, “Yes. I’ve been ready to leave ever since we left the hotel.”

Eric gave him a decidedly odd look as he rose from the table, leaving the proper amount of yen on the table (London had given them a crash course in Japanese money earlier that day) and replied, “Then why did you invite me here?”

“Dunno,” the redhead mumbled, ducking his head. “You looked grumpy. I figured some food would make you feel better.”

And all of a sudden, Eric realized he really _did_ feel better, so instead of scowling at the other man as he would have under normal circumstances, he merely gave a curt nod. “Thanks,” he grudgingly forced out.

Wyatt brightened a little at that, as though he couldn’t believe he’d gotten two thank you’s out of Eric in as many days. He hadn’t even had to catch him from falling on the sidewalk this time. Waving off the thanks with a calloused hand, Wyatt just smiled at him and held the door open for Eric as they left.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said once they were outside, and pulled a map of Osaka out of his pocket (courtesy of London, since James was too annoyed to do any favors for Eric at the moment), and focused on navigating back to the hotel.

 

* * *

 

Eric did not realize that Wyatt had his cell phone number until he was running hideously late to the show. He’d been on time originally, of course – everyone had come as a group, and London had led them to the dressing rooms and given them specific directions to the stage. Theoretically, it should have been impossible to get lost.

Eric really should have known he’d be the one to prove London wrong.

It had been entirely accidental. He’d been sitting in the dressing room, playing with the velcro of his wrist splints, when he’d noticed a deadly gaze from James. It was hidden behind a carefully peaceful mask, but Eric knew what to look for now – and it was _scary_. That was when he caught sight of Mitch lumbering past the door way, and he’d shot off after him without a second thought.“Here,” he’d said, hastily removing the unattractive tan splints and set them atop the pre-amp the tall roadie was carrying. “Hang onto these for me, okay?”

Shifting the speaker in his arms, Mitch nodded and mumbled a quick, “Sure thing,” before hurrying off to finish his job. Eric had paused long enough to watch him go, and then turned around to make his way back to the dressing room, only to discover—

“Fuck. I’m lost.”

Frowning, he’d scanned the perimeter for someone who looked like they might have _maybe_ spoken English, yet he found no one. Hell if he knew where London was – probably where Eric needed to be. And no one around him seemed inclined to offer any help.

He nearly jumped a foot into the air when his pants suddenly started buzzing (he’d forgotten his phone was on vibrate in his pocket), and he hastily looked at the screen of his phone to read a quick message that said Eric should hurry the fuck up and come backstage already, because everyone was waiting. At first, Eric was bewildered by the foreign number, but he quickly realized it was none other than Wyatt, judging by the swearing and snappy tone, unless James was still in a bad mood.

Without thinking, Eric saved the number into his contact list and shoved the phone back into his pocket. He was even more desperate now that he knew they were supposed to be going on soon, and he _still_ couldn’t find anyone who appeared to know English.

“Eric,” Mitch’s puzzled voice suddenly broke through the pianist’s panic. Eric whirled to face him, grateful for a familiar voice – but more than that, an _English_ -speaking voice. Not bothering to worry about his image, Eric latched onto the other man’s arm.

“Help me get backstage,” he hissed urgently. “I have no idea where I am.”

Raising an eyebrow, Eric could tell Mitch was fighting very hard with himself to not crack a joke at the blond’s expense. Eventually, however, the roadie sighed and pried Eric’s hand off his arm and said, “Okay, okay. Follow me.” And then he proceeded to lead Eric back to a huffy-looking London and the rest of the band.

“I think this belongs to you,” Mitch teased as he pushed the pianist toward the group.

Sending the roadie a seething glare over his shoulder (which was actually laced with quite a bit of gratitude), Eric snorted and trudged over to stand next to Wyatt and Fatty. He was still a little afraid of James, so he crossed his arms and purposely did not look anywhere near the bassist. “Big deal,” he muttered under his breath. “I just got a little lost.”

“Ah, so that’s where you were,” Wyatt said with a smirk in the blond’s direction. “We were starting to get worried about you.”

“Whatever,” Eric grumbled, reaching up to brush his hair away from where it had fallen against his cheek. He really needed a haircut.

Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately), Japanese girls seemed to like feminine American men with too-long blond hair, or they at least liked Eric. This was rather surprising. He’d attracted attention in England and the United States, of course – after all, he _was_ a striking young man with stylish hair and bright blue eyes – but he couldn’t even hold a candle to the noise garnered by the rest of the band. Which made sense, really; they’d been around far longer, so of course they had more dedicated fans.

What Eric had not taken into account about Japan, however, was that he was the only blond among them. And apparently that was unique enough to make him the best thing since Pocky, as far as the fangirls were concerned. He wondered how he’d managed to miss this during the Tokyo performance, but he suspected he’d been too distracted by the persistent pain in his wrists to notice. Now, however, Eric was on enough pain killers to be pleasantly unaware of his inflamed tendons, and he was free to observe exactly how much interest he’d drawn.

Eric had never sprinted away after a concert quite that fast as he did later that night, and he was waiting in the car long before anyone else trailed outside. He wasn’t taking his any chances with the crazy Japanese fangirls. Sliding into the seat next to him, Wyatt gave him a questioning gaze, but somehow managed to keep his mouth shut. Fatty piled into the passenger seat, and the blond’s muscles clenched momentarily, wondering if James was joining them for another inevitably catastrophic drive.

Letting out a relieved sigh when the only other person to enter the car was the driver, Eric promptly set about making himself comfortable. He adjusted his seatbelt so that he could rest with his knees bent in the open seat between Wyatt and himself, his head bumping against the window, and pulled out his phone to text message Peter.

“Wait,” Wyatt said, and Eric frowned in annoyance.

“What?” he snapped, curling away from him and towards the window. “I didn’t even do anything.”

“Your wrists,” the redhead murmured by way of explanation, and reached to produce the pianist’s splints from the pocket in the seat in front of him. He handed them to Eric with a slight smile and said, “Mitch thought you might need these.”

Flushing with embarrassment, Eric snatched the wrist splints from the other man and began strapping them on. It was harder to text with them on, but he didn’t really care. He was just glad he had time to talk to Peter again.

As much as he’d enjoyed the tour, he had to admit he was eager to get out of Japan and go back home.


	12. Chapter 12

Eric’s crappy apartment really wasn’t that crappy at all. It was situated in a pocket of Californian suburbia, and he had lots of neighbors with dogs and palm trees and identical tans. The Forsters were rather well off, and he’d appropriated a decent portion of it to start out with. He stood in front of his apartment with a distinct feeling of emptiness, as though the original rush of living on his own had faded – which it had. Now he was just lonely.

He mailed Peter the underwear but kept the fern, arranging it on a windowsill facing the sunrise, and he sometimes told it stories as he watered it. During the day, he kept himself busy by watching television, searching for youtube videos of himself, and combing through all the forum posts he’d missed in the past month or so. It was close to Christmas, but Eric supposed Christmas really didn’t mean much if he had no one to share it with, so he spent most days wishing the time would go faster so he could (hopefully) start working with the rest of the band in the recording studio.

If it turned out he’d only been asked to join the band as a one time only deal, he had no idea what he was going to do. Die, maybe. And now that he was living alone, he didn’t have Andrew or his parents or his crazy older sister to annoy him and therefore effectively derail his obsessive trail of thought.

And that was how Eric Forster ended up returning to the very place he had fled nearly half a year ago: his parents’ house.

 

* * *

 

“Shit,” he swore almost instantly upon his arrival, at which point the Forster family’s yellow lab, Lacy, decided it was appropriate to greet him by nearly bowling him over. His duffle bag spilled onto the paved driveway as his ass hit the concrete, and he rubbed his head with a groan. Christ, that had hurt. At least he’d left his fern in the car for the time being, so it hadn’t been destroyed.

“Eric!” Andrew, who was visiting the Forster home during his university’s winter break, came bounding out of the house excitedly, much in the same fashion as Lacy had done moments before. At least Andrew had the common sense not to knock Eric onto the cold, hard ground. Instead, his twin hauled Eric onto his feet and quickly wrapped him in a bone-crushing hug.

Courtesy of Andrew’s hug, Eric didn’t really have enough air left in him for a proper sentence, so he just said, “Urghh,” and hoped his brother understood.

Andrew just grinned and slapped the skinnier man’s back as he pulled away. “I’m so glad you decided to come home for Christmas.”

Shrugging, the pianist reached to retrieve his bag and slung it over his shoulder with a carefully neutral expression. “Yeah,” he mumbled hesitantly. “Me too.”

With a short laugh, Andrew grabbed him by the elbow and began steering him inside. “I know that’s a lie, but thanks for the effort.”

Eric ducked his head and hid a smile. He could always count on Andrew to see through any façade or lie he might throw at him. “You’re welcome,” he replied, and turned his eyes with trepidation to the painted blue door of his previous home.

Astair Forster, who was just as blond as her sons, was standing in the foyer when he came inside. She appeared to have just finished fussing over a bit of garland draped elegantly across the banister leading upstairs, and she turned to greet Eric with a rather unimpressed expression.

“Danny,” she said, and Eric felt the name like a blow to the stomach. They both stopped and stared at each other, the tense anticipation of criticism for leaving in a rebellious rush the year prior forgotten by the sudden shock and disturbance of being called the wrong name. Astair recovered easily enough, however, with a tight, forced smile as she crossed the room to give him a light-fingered, one-armed hug. “Sorry. I meant. You’ll be staying in Danny’s room. Hello, Eric.”

“Hello, mother,” he said, eyeing her with barely contained ire. “I’d much rather stay in my room, if you don’t mind.”

“Nonsense,” she said, and turned to sweep into the kitchen, both sons following behind her. She fetched a plate of cookies from the counter and set it on the kitchen table with another cold smile, nudging a chocolate chip cookie in Eric’s direction. It looked store bought. “We turned your room into a study,” she continued, ignoring his obvious look of outrage. “I’m afraid you’ll have to stay in either Danny’s old room or with Andrew.”

Eric swallowed his rage and indignity with no small effort and said, “I’ll stay with Andrew, then.”

“Good.” Astair nodded approvingly, her gaze flickering momentarily between the two men. “Remember to look sharp tomorrow. We’re having a dinner party—” which Eric understood to mean a boring meal with people from his parents’ work “—so your father and I would appreciate it if you were on your best behavior.”

Rolling his eyes at being treated like a child, Eric grunted a vague agreement and turned away from her to slink upstairs. He didn’t want to be in the same room with her any longer than absolutely necessary. Andrew followed behind him, unfazed by their mother, and repeatedly poked his twin in the shoulder until Eric finally frowned and said, “What is it?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t punch her for calling you Danny,” his twin noted with an impressed grin. “Did you actually grow up a little while you were getting famous?”

“Oh, shut up,” Eric muttered, then immediately paused on the stairs, causing Andrew to bump into his back.

“What is it?”

Suddenly feeling rather alarmed, Eric turned his head, mouth wide, and asked, “Does she know about the band yet?”

“What?” Andrew asked, blinking in uncertainty.

“She’s going to find out that I was on tour with a rock band for three months,” Eric hissed in mounting horror. Astair had raised her sons to be nothing short of charming and political, and if she _ever_ found out Eric had been involved in something as stereotypically scandalous as a famous rock band, she would have a full blown aneurism. “Shit. If she doesn’t know yet, then she probably will _soon_.”

Andrew’s mouth formed a little _o_ of surprise, and he hesitated a moment before slowly shaking his head. “This is bad,” he whispered.

“No kidding,” Eric whispered back furiously as faint hysteria began to set in. “She’s going to bitch about me ruining the Forster reputation and then hold it over my head for the rest of my _life_.”

“Calm down,” Andrew said, strangely reasonable, and nudged his brother up the stairs. “We can figure this out. Just… don’t freak out.”

Already in the throes of full freak out mode, Eric remained frozen in place. His hands were gripping the railing so hard his knuckles were white, and he was sure he’d ruined any aesthetic value the garland had once had. “I’m totally fucked,” he uttered weakly.

“No, you’re not.” Forcing him up the stairs one step at the time, Andrew somehow managed to keep a level head. “It’s not like Mom and Dad watch MTV or anything. And you weren’t always part of the band, right? It could be worse.”

“I was in an interview,” Eric admitted in a feeble voice as they finally reached the top of the stairs. He allowed Andrew to steer them into what was to be their shared room, sitting numbly on the edge of one of the twin beds inside.

“Well, what are the odds that they saw it?” Andrew asked.

Although Eric knew he was only trying to help, he couldn’t resist sending his brother a scathing glare. “Pretty low,” he said through gritted teeth, “but the odds that one of their _coworkers_ saw it is considerably higher.”

Andrew’s mouth clicked shut at that. It seemed as though he couldn’t think of anything else to say, because he remained silent as he sat next to Eric, staring at his hands where he clasped them together in his lap.

“I need to go die now,” Eric declared dramatically as he flopped onto his back and closed his eyes. “I’ll just stay here, and eventually I’ll turn into dust, and then I won’t have to deal with any of this crap anymore.”

“I thought you liked being famous,” Andrew pointed out.

“I do,” Eric muttered, stretching his arms over head, and suppressed a whimper at the thought of the upcoming dinner party. “I also like not being under Mom’s thumb. After this, I’ll be one guilt trip away from doing whatever she wants for the rest of my life…”

After biting his lip for a moment, Andrew seemed to come to a decision. He grabbed Eric’s arm and hauled him back to a sitting position, making Eric blink in bewilderment, and Andrew gave him a small smile. “Just lie about your job,” he reasoned.

Eric rolled his eyes. “Like that’s going to change anything. If anyone’s heard about me joining the band, they’re going to call me out on it immediately.”

“Well, if they haven’t brought it up yet, then they probably aren’t going to.”

“…That’s actually a good point,” the pianist conceded somewhat grudgingly. “But that still doesn’t change the fact that dinner’s going to suck.”

“Nah,” Andrew said, grinning. “I’ll just talk about changing my major to business and no one will even pay attention to you.”

“Gee,” mumbled Eric sarcastically, although he seemed incredibly grateful beyond the scorn. “Thanks a lot, Drew.”

“No problem,” the other man said with a laugh, and slugged Eric on the shoulder.

 

                                                                          * * *                            

 

Dinner in the Forster abode was something akin to Chinese water torture, in Eric’s opinion. It mostly consisted of silence, peppered with the hair-rising sound of a knife scraping against a plate, and it was almost enough to drive the slender pianist clinically insane.

Dinner _parties_ , however, were even worse.

Eric didn’t give a crap about any of their conversations, so his sole source of entertainment came from assigning each attendee a mental nickname. Mr. Creepy Smile was busy shoveling potatoes onto his plate while Mrs. Ugly, who was so unrepentantly hideous that Eric could think of no better name, unsuccessfully made eyes at him from across the table. Alternately staring at the ceiling and hiding his face with his hand, Eric found the whole thing repulsive, and could scarcely bring himself to observe the other people more than absolutely necessary. If he avoided eye contact, he figured he could spend an obligatory half an hour at the table without speaking or being spoken to, and then he would be free to escape upstairs. Next to him, Andrew was chattering in a friendly manner to Mr. Wiggly Eyebrows, and it seemed to Eric that his twin was actually _enjoying_ it.

 _Good_ , he thought to himself as he idly pushed his food around on his plate. _At least Mom can stop worrying about who’s going to take over the family business_.

With a mere five minutes left before blissful freedom, Eric made the mistake of staring at the clock a split second too long as his mother rose to fetch dessert, and their eyes met.

“Eric,” she began in a prim tone that vaguely reminded him of London, “why don’t you tell everyone what you’ve been up to all year while I get the dessert tray?”

“Uh,” Eric replied in a strangled tone, which Astair sadistically took as a sign of assent, and she disappeared behind the swinging kitchen door before he could argue. Suddenly, all eyes were on him, and his brain was too busy panicking to come up with a convincing lie. Fuck.

“He’s been traveling,” Andrew supplied with a flawless smile, and Eric made a mental note to worship him for the rest of their lives.

There were various noises of interest and approval, at which Eric sat up straighter in his chair and cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he continued, trying to imitate Andrew’s smile beneath all the critical stares. “I went to the East coast, and Europe, and Japan…”

“It’s very important to make business partners in Japan,” Mrs. Ugly commented, which quickly spawned an entirely new conversation. When Astair returned, the table was discussing the merits of learning Japanese versus Chinese, and she bestowed Eric with an approving gaze as she set down the dessert tray.

Before she could ask him another question, he quickly tossed his napkin on the table and asked to be excused.

 

* * *

 

Other than the dinner party incident (which ranked somewhere around number twelve on Eric’s list of Worst Things to Ever Happen), the visit went fairly smoothly. He drank the eggnog that his parents forced upon him, hung the appropriate ornaments on the Christmas tree, and smiled as fakely as possible for next year’s Forster holiday card. The actual day of Christmas deserved no special mention, because the Forsters merely gave their sons cards with money inside, at which they smiled aptly, as though it weren’t the same gift they’d received for twenty years. As it was, the day _after_ Christmas deserved more attention for two reasons: a letter and a phone call.

The letter came first, the envelope torn and bearing several stamps in foreign postage. It appeared to have come from Africa, and Eric and Andrew took it upon themselves to open it without waiting for their parents to return from work.

“Cool,” Andrew said jubilantly upon recognizing the handwriting. “It’s from Eleanor.”

The letter went as such:

 

_Dear parents,_

_I finally met a man who doesn’t suck. Here’s a picture of him. I’m doing a series of photographs for National Geographic, which is much cooler than trading stock or wasting our planet’s precious resources for my own personal needs, so I hope you don’t mind that I turned down your offer for that CEO position. (If Eric and Andy are reading this, I urge them not to fall into your trap.) Other than that, I have nothing else to say. Stop asking for my address._

_Sincerely,_

_Eleanor_

Snorting in various degrees of amusement at their older sister’s antics, the two men shook the envelope, and out fell a glossy photo of a brown-haired man stooping over what they assumed to be a specimen of local plant life with a magnifying glass and a camera.

“She fell in love with a nerd,” Eric laughed loudly. “Classic, Eleanor.”

“I’m happy for her,” Andrew said, although he was snickering as well. “I wonder when we’ll get to meet him.”

Rolling his eyes, Eric slid the letter and picture back into the envelope and tossed it onto the kitchen counter for their parents to read later. “In three years or something, probably. I can’t even remember the last time she visited, let alone the last time she brought someone with her.”

Andrew hummed a somewhat wistful agreement, and they both gave the letter a thoughtful, almost regretful look before they traipsed back upstairs. They were smart enough to know it was rather dangerous to be around when Astair read anything her daughter sent. Although, Eric couldn’t help but wonder how she would react to the prospect of _finally_ having the opportunity to plan a wedding.

Laughing a little, he flung himself onto the cot they’d set up for him in Andrew’s room and pulled his wrist splints out of his bag so he could continue his game of Tetris. With Astair’s luck, Eleanor probably wouldn’t even want a wedding.

 

* * *

 

The second noteworthy event of the day – the phone call – came just after Eric had put on his matching pajamas, right before he planned to brush his teeth. At the sound of his cell phone ringing from the bedroom, he sprinted out of the bathroom to answer it, expecting a call from Peter, or perhaps Eleanor, but he was taken aback to find an unfamiliar number flashing on his screen.

Hesitantly, he answered, “Hello?”

“You sound surprised,” said a familiar voice.

“James,” Eric greeted, feeling numb. He had mixed feelings about their last few days together, and he wasn’t sure whether to be contrite or annoyed. “How are you?”

“Better,” the bassist admitted, laughing. “I apologize for my temper. I’m not a fan of long car rides.”

“It’s okay.” Flopping down onto his bed, he pinned the phone between his ear and shoulder, fiddling absently with his pillow. “Why are you calling me?”

“Just checking in,” James replied in an amused tone. Ah, now _there_ was the James that Eric remembered.

“Well, I’m fine, so consider yourself checked in.”

“Mm, but that’s not all,” the other man continued. “Before you ran out of the Osaka show, London announced a brainstorming period for us in January, to which you are invited.” He paused. “Was I correct in assuming no one informed you?”

“Uh, yeah,” Eric said, feeling relieved and elated and pissed off all at once. Why had it taken nearly a _month_ for someone to tell him about this – and _James_ , at that? Surely, Fatty and Wyatt had known he’d been hiding in the car during the announcement. Fisting his hands at his side, Eric scowled and made a mental note to kick them in the head the next time he saw them.

“Are you coming?” James asked.

Hesitating for only a split-second, Eric nodded to himself and replied, “Yeah. It’s fine with me.”

“Excellent,” James murmured, sounding more pleased than Eric would have expected. “London has already arranged for transportation, so all we need is your address.”

Eric’s eyebrows furrowed. “Wait a minute. Why isn’t _London_ the one calling me?”

“Because he asked _me_ to.”

Frowning, Eric privately wondered what the hell London was so busy with that he had to askJames for help, but he decided he could always accost the manager about it some other time. Instead, he nodded, and then rolled his eyes at himself when he realized James couldn’t see. “Good enough,” he muttered, and then proceeded to tell the bassist his address.

“Thank you,” the other man said warmly once he’d finished collecting the information. “We’ll see you at eight am on the first, Eric.”

“Um, you’re welcome,” replied the blond, suddenly excited for the beginning of next month, and hit the ‘end’ button.

 

* * *

 

“Can you do me a favor?” asked Andrew the next day as he poked his head into their shared room, looking almost embarrassed.

Glancing up from his game of Tetris, Eric blinked once as the words registered in his head, and he set down his Game Boy with an intrigued expression. “Oh?” he asked loftily. “And what might this be? I’ll have you know I’m very—”

“Don’t even,” Andrew cut off Eric’s arrogant tirade before he could even begin. “You owe me for the dinner party, and you know it.”

Eric couldn’t argue with that kind of logic. Closing the Game Boy with a wistful look, he patted the space next to him on the bed and waited for Andrew to sit next to him. “Okay,” he said, attempting to look cooperative. “What’cha need?”

“Okay,” the other man began somewhat uncomfortably. “This is going to sound kind of weird, but I was wondering if you could get Avery’s number for me.”

Eric stared. “Since when are you gay?” he asked.

“Not like that,” Andrew snapped, his cheeks flushing. “I’m going back to Milwaukee before break ends to look for an apartment for second semester, and I thought it would be nice to ask him to hang out.”

Still unconvinced that Andrew wasn’t secretly gay for Wyatt’s brother, Eric continued staring as he pressed, “Didn’t you guys hang out all last semester?”

“Well, yeah,” Andrew replied with a sheepish look. “We just never exchanged numbers or anything since we saw each other on campus all the time.”

“You’re a dumbass,” Eric pointed out flatly, and Andrew hung his head in defeat. At that, Eric felt a brief pang of guilt, so he reached out to pat his twin on the head and said, “Okay, fine. I’ll get it.”

“Thank you,” his twin said gratefully, dropping his head onto his twin’s shoulder.

Eric snorted at that. After several days of rest and Advil, his wrists felt surprisingly better, so he pulled his phone out of his pocket and sent a quick text, sans splints.

 

To: Wyatt

Message: I need Avery’s number

Sent: Dec 27 9:20 pm

 

He shut his phone with a click and turned to Andrew. “There,” he muttered. “I hope you’re happy. I had to ask Wyatt for—”

Apparently, Wyatt was faster at texting than Eric had thought, because his phone vibrated in his hand, the screen flashing with ‘New Message.’

 

From: Wyatt

Message: …uh. Why the hell do you need my brother’s phone number?

Sent: Dec 27 9:21 pm

 

“Jerk,” Eric mumbled, rolling his eyes.

 

To: Wyatt

Message: It’s for Drew

Sent: Dec 27 9:23 pm

 

“What’d he say?” Andrew asked, leaning forward in an attempt to catch a glimpse of Eric’s screen, but the pianist jabbed him in the side and pushed him away.

“He’s just being a bastard,” he answered with a frown. Then he paused and amended that with, “A _nosey_ bastard. Why does he care?”

Shrugging, his twin swung his legs absently over the edge of the bed and said, “He’s your boyfriend, right? Maybe he’s jealous.”

Eric’s jaw dropped. “He is _not_ ,” he hissed, punching Andrew in the shoulder. “And that joke is _really_ getting old.”

“I was being serious,” Andrew insisted, but he was grinning, and Eric punched him again, just for good measure.

His phone buzzed again, and Eric looked down to find Avery’s cell phone number in the new message from Wyatt. He handed his cell to Andrew with a sigh. “Here,” he mumbled, and flopped onto his back. “You can thank me later.”

“Mm,” Andrew said, too busy typing the number into his phone to form a real reply.

Snatching his phone back the moment his twin was finished, Eric typed one last note to the singer.

 

To: Wyatt

Message: Thanks

Sent: Dec 27 9:28 pm

 

After that, he dug around through the blankets of his bed, searching for the Game Boy he’d abandoned in favor of helping Andrew. His twin just laughed at him before pulling out from underneath his pillow, and Eric glared at him until Andrew gave it back. Then the other man left, presumably to call Avery, and Eric was left to his game of Tetris.

He kept pausing, however, at the imagined sound or sensation of his phone vibrating (he’d kept it on his lap, just in case). The third time it happened, he realized it was because he was actually _waiting_ for Wyatt to reply with a ‘you’re welcome,’ or at least _something_. Frustrated with himself, he picked up his phone and heaved it against the wall, where it ricocheted onto the floor.

Snorting appropriately at the damn thing, Eric stuck his nose in the air and returned to his game. However, a minute later, he heard a very faint, “Hello? Hellooooo?” coming from his phone.

Horrified, he scrambled to retrieve it, mouth gaping as he realized it had called someone by itself. And not just anyone, but _Wyatt_. To make matters worse, he had just stood over it for the past several moments, gaping in disbelief, and he totally sounded like a creepy stalker what with the way he was breathing into the phone. _And Wyatt knew it was him_.

“Umm,” he said, holding the phone up to his ear. “Sorry. My phone called you.” He paused in embarrassment. “By itself,” he emphasized.

“Oh.” Wyatt sounded caught off guard. “Well, uh, I guess I should…”

“How are you doing?” Eric blurted before the singer could end the call. He’d just spent the past however many minutes waiting for the bastard to text him back, so he wasn’t going to lose his chance to get a ‘you’re welcome’ out of him.

“I’m good,” Wyatt said in surprise. “Er. How are…you?”

This was by far the most awkward phone conversation Eric had ever had in his life. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he bit his lip and mumbled, “I’m okay.” There was a long beat of silence during which Eric realized Wyatt didn’t have anything else to say. “So, what have you been doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Eric repeated, belatedly recalling their conversation in the sushi restaurant, where Wyatt had explained his plans to do absolutely nothing the entire break.

“Yep,” Wyatt said. “I ate dinner earlier. And now I’m, um…” Eric imagined him looking around himself so he could describe exactly what he was doing. “Sitting,” he finished lamely.

“That’s good,” replied the blond, and then immediately cringed, because that had sounded so incredibly stupid he couldn’t believe it had come out of his mouth.

“What about you?” the other man asked quickly.

Glancing around at his Game Boy and makeshift bed on his cot, Eric frowned as he responded, “Dying slowly in an abyss of stupidity.” He let that sink in for a moment before he continued with, “I went to visit my parents.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah,” Eric said, and gave into the fact that their talk was going nowhere fast. “Well, anyway, thanks for sending Avery’s number. Drew really appreciated it.”

“Oh, no problem,” Wyatt replied. “You’re welcome.”

 _Yes_! Eric thought to himself triumphantly, grinning despite the fact that he’d just endured the most uncomfortable phone conversation since the invention of the telephone – no, since the evolution of _language_.

“Okay, well. I’ll see you in like four days,” he murmured, fidgeting with the edge of his blanket. He wanted this call to be over as soon as possible, lest the embarrassment continue.

“Yeah.” The redhead hesitated for a moment, and then said, “Uh. Bye.”

“Bye,” Eric muttered. Then he vigilantly turned his keypad lock on and hurled his phone at the wall a second time, because _fuck_! That couldn’t have gone any worse. At least he’d gotten that ‘you’re welcome’ out of him.


	13. Chapter 13

The first of the month found Eric waiting outside with his bag packed (wrist splints and Advil included, just in case) and his fern at his side. He’d been standing there for quite some time, and his shoes were scuffed from kicking at the ground. At the sight of a black car pulling into the long, circular driveway of the Forster house, he straightened up and shouldered his bag almost excitedly.

The car glided to a stop, and the driver door opened to reveal London, half-frozen on his way out. He had one leg on the pavement, his hand poised in the air where it had just pushed his sunglasses on top of his head and he was staring at Eric’s house with something akin to awe. A second later it changed to comprehension, then anger. Transferring his gaze to the blond standing at the door with a canvas bag, the manager pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes.

“You lied,” he accused in a flat tone.

“Yep.” Cheerfully, Eric adjusted his bag and hopped down the front steps to walk to the car. “And you fell for it.”

London could not keep his eyebrow from twitching. “You never needed extra money to pay for your apartment,” he said, slowly, as though he were processing the words as he said them. His face was a perfect picture of disbelief.

“Nope,” Eric replied, smirking as he pushed past London and tossed his bag into the open trunk. It was otherwise completely empty, and Eric supposed they were either picking up the rest of the group along the way, or the band had already congregated at… wherever they were going.

That was a good question, actually.

“Say,” he murmured as he turned back to the manager, who was picking up his fern and carrying it to the car. “Where are you taking me, exactly?”

“A country home,” London answered with squinty eyes as he watched Eric close the trunk. He looked infuriated at having been tricked, eyebrows furrowed and nostrils flared, but he somehow managed not to bitch him out. Absently, Eric wished his mother would pick up that particular diplomatic trait.

“The country,” Eric repeated numbly, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “That sounds sucky.”

“You think everything sounds sucky,” London muttered as he ushered the delicate-looking blond into the passenger seat. Unfortunately, what London had said was true, so Eric couldn’t exactly argue with it.

“Still.” Morosely, he allowed himself to be herded into the car, and he flopped onto his seat with a dramatic huff. London glared at him until he buckled his seatbelt. “Why the _country_?” he groaned.

“It’s out of the way,” the manager answered stiffly as he walked around the vehicle to plant himself in the driver’s seat. Giving Eric a pre-emptitive glare, he cut off whatever reply Eric had been about to give and said, “So you can write new songs without worrying about people stealing them.”

“Or,” Eric mumbled as he kicked the glove compartment childishly, “so you don’t have to worry about people starting crazy rumors.”

“That too,” London agreed delicately as he started the engine and pulled out of the driveway.

The glove compartment had fallen open when he’d kicked it, so Eric leaned forward and curiously began to rifle through it. First, he found a few ancient-looking cassette tapes, then registration papers, and _then_ a toothbrush and toothpaste, which he held up with a questioning look in London’s direction. “What the hell are these for?”

“If I get stranded somewhere,” he answered, reaching out to smack Eric’s hands. “Put those back, and stop pillaging my things!”

“I’m not pillaging.” He sullenly replaced the items in London’s glove compartment and folded his arms across his chest. “ _Vikings_ pillage,” he mumbled, mostly to himself. “Not me.”

It was at this point that London seemed to realize he’d just sentenced himself to a very long ride along with Eric, because he heaved a long sigh and rubbed the side of his face exasperatedly. “Okay, Eric,” he said. “You’re right. You weren’t pillaging. Please forgive me.”

“You’re a patronizing ass,” the pianist growled, and instantly began messing with every available dial within his reach. London’s jaw clenched, but he maturely chose not to comment, and Eric did an internal victory dance.

 

* * *

 

The country house was all that Eric had expected: a crappy-looking shack in the middle of fucking _nowhere_ , with a single red Jeep parked in the driveway and a tiny dog rolling around in the front yard. He pulled an unhappy face at it as he exited the car, not bothering to get his luggage. London would get it, he figured.

Of course, London was used to dealing with Eric, and he simply pursed his lips as he followed suit with Eric’s duffel bag and fern in tow. “Don’t even consider telling me you hate it,” he warned with a hint of intimidation in his voice. “Please reserve judgment until you’ve seen the inside.”

Eric snorted in doubtful agreement, overstepping the dog as it rolled his way. “Whatever,” he mumbled, and then paused at the doorway, suddenly aware of his excitement. Frowning, he realized that he had actually missed the three blundering fucktards, and that was… just…

He didn’t know what, really. To be honest, he didn’t want to think about it. So instead, he flung open the door, a bit surprised to find Fatty sitting on a couch while James and Wyatt stood in front of a TV, playing Guitar Hero.

“I see you’ve been productive while I was gone,” London drawled, stepping inside with Eric’s bag over his shoulder, the fern cradled against his chest.

“Shhh,” Wyatt shushed him, tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration.

“You’ll ruin their focus,” Fatty noted. “I already got yelled at three times for it.”

From the doorway, Eric raised both of his eyebrows and said, “Why didn’t you stop the first time?”

Fatty lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I got excited.”

“Oookay.” London seemed to think it best not to ask, because he stepped around Eric to place his fern on a table by the large window of the room and dumped the blond’s bag on the floor. “I hope this isn’t how you plan to spend _all_ of the next six weeks. You’re supposed to be writing songs, you know.”

“It’s inspirational,” Fatty said, pointing to the television. James and Wyatt shushed him in unison.

“Seriously,” Wyatt grunted as he missed a note. “I will kill you if we score less than a five on this song.”

“Oh, whatever.” Waving him off, Eric began kicking his bag in what he assumed was the direction of the bedrooms. “Where do I sleep?”

Rolling his eyes at the blond’s antics, London reached down to pick up the bag, carrying it for the lazy man. “Over here,” he said, and led the way into the hallway, then split off into a room.

A room with two beds, Eric noticed.

“What the fuck is this?” he asked, careful to keep his voice from shaking, and turned to the manager with accusatory eyes. “Who am I sharing with?”

London pursed his lips as though unhappy with his answer. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “They wouldn’t let me make the schedule.”

If this had been any other situation, Eric would have laughed out loud at the manager’s petulant expression. However, this was serious business – now that he thought about it, there wasn’t a single band member with whom he wanted to room. Fatty was, well, Fatty, and James was apparently scary as hell, and Wyatt—

“Hey,” the aforementioned singer said as he appeared in the doorway. “Sorry about that. Fake guitar isn’t as easy as real guitar,” he joked.

“It’s fine,” Eric replied curtly, attempting to curb the panic rising in his stomach. With a sense of mounting defeat, he turned to look around the room, and hung his head. In the corner was propped an acoustic guitar, along with a suitcase practically exploding with old band tees and ripped jeans.

Hoping he was wrong, the blond turned to Wyatt and asked, “Is this your room?”

“Yep,” he replied, sealing Eric’s doom.

“Great.” The sulky blond leaned against the wall, frowning as he watched London place his bag next to the second bed. This sucked. “Why don’t we have _four_ rooms?”

Wyatt and London both stared. Eventually, they exchanged a glance, and Wyatt cleared his throat. “You _have_ met London before, right?”

Scowling in response, Eric crossed his arms stubbornly over his chest and stuck out his tongue. “Yes, I have,” he said. “But I figured that maybe if we were going to stay here for a month or whatever, he _might_ spring for the two extra rooms.”

“It promotes team bonding,” London explained flatly. “But it’s nice that you think I’m too cheap.”

“Uh,” Wyatt interjected with a look of disbelief. “You _are_.”

Drawing himself up with a prim expression, the manager gave both of them stern looks before he said, “Well, then. I’ll just be leaving now.”

“Aw, London,” Wyatt protested, trying to grab London’s arm as he swept past the singer. “I didn’t mean it in a _bad_ way. I meant it in a money-saving way!”

London seemed to be ignoring him, however, because he stopped in the main room to give both James and Fatty a curt nod. “I’ll be back next week with groceries,” he told them, then turned on his heel to walk outside.

“Bye,” James called, and Fatty waved.

“London,” Wyatt persisted, following him all the way to the doorway. “I meant _thrifty_!”

And then, for the very first time since Eric had met him, the manager flipped off the band before driving away. All he could think to say was, “Wow.” Then he grinned, clapping Wyatt on the shoulder, and followed it up with, “Nice going, Wyatt.”

Wyatt merely made a face in return.

 

* * *

 

Eric had no idea how secluding them from the rest of civilization was supposed to spur the creative process. So far, all it had done was make Eric _incredibly_ bored, as he’d forgotten his Gameboy charger (after calling and apologizing to London, the manager had agreed to bring it with the supplies next week). Even Peter appeared to be busy, since he’d only sent one text that day:

 

From: Peter

Message: Thanks for the panties. :o

Sent: Jan 01 3:51 pm

 

He would have tried to entertain himself by talking to the rest of the band, but he’d been ostracized within an hour of arriving. It was incredibly frustrating, since he hadn’t even done anything _wrong_ , except for sucking at Guitar Hero and childishly mocking every single song until Wyatt literally picked him up and threw him outside.

Okay, so maybe he had done a _few_ things wrong, but seriously, they didn’t have to stick him outside with the dog. The stupid dog, with big brown eyes and floppy ears and ridiculously huge paws, and okay, it was actually a puppy, and it was _adorable_. But Eric was kind of afraid it was rabid or something, since it didn’t belong to any of the band members. Privately, he suspected it belong to whomever they were renting this hellhole from (it was actually a very nice country resort, London’s thriftiness aside), but he couldn’t be sure, so he kept his distance.

Or at least he tried to keep his distance, but the dumb beast kept climbing all over his shoes, jumping against his calves for attention, and –

“Oh, _fine_ ,” he finally conceded, and slumped down on the front steps, his back against the wooden door, and rubbed the puppy behind his ears. Although he hated to admit it, he kind of missed Lacy sometimes, and –

 

From: Drew

Message: What should I tell Mom and Dad you’re doing?

Sent: Jan 01 5:02 pm

 

 _Crap_ , he thought to himself hysterically as he read the message on his phone. He’d completely forgotten to make up a cover story, and he’d left under the flimsy excuse that he was returning to his apartment in California. Beneath the panic, he idly wondered when his brother had started text messaging people – especially with such Peter-esque grammar and capitalization – but he couldn’t be bothered with that at the moment.

 

To: Drew

Message: I’m working

Sent: Jan 01 5:05 pm

 

He should have known better than to hope his parents would buy that excuse.

 

From: Drew

Message: If you don’t come up with a better story, I’m going to tell them you’re flipping burgers out of spite.

Sent: Jan 01 5:06 pm

 

Cringing, Eric decided it would be a bad idea to tell his brother that actually _had_ been his job for about a week before he begged him to come down and go to an interview for him. (Actually, he’d begged him to come and visit and _then_ manhandled him to the roadie interview, but that was irrelevant.) He quickly typed a response.

 

To: Drew

Message: What about an intern somewhere?

Sent: Jan 01 5:09 pm

 

From: Drew

Message: I’ve been watching a _The Office_ marathon for the past two hours, so you’re going to work for a paper company. Also, you owe me. Again.

Sent: Jan 01 5:10 pm

 

Eric made a mental note to buy Andrew a very expensive present the next time they saw each other. Biting the inside of his cheek and pushing the puppy’s head away from his crotch (why the fuck did dogs always smell people’s crotches, anyway?), he sent a one-handed response.

 

To: Drew

Message: Thanks

Sent: Jan 01 5:12 pm

 

And then he shut his phone and stashed in his pocket without bothering to wait for a reply back, because seriously, this dog would just not _quit_ sticking his nose in places it didn’t belong. Scolding didn’t seem to work, though, so he got up and wandered around beneath various trees in the area until he found a stick, which he immediately threw into the distance.

However, the puppy merely stared at him. Eric scowled and made very dramatic hand gestures in the direction of the stick. “ _Fetch_ ,” he stressed. “You’re supposed to fetch.”

Apparently, all the dog had needed was a verbal cue, because he instantly bounded off to retrieve the stick. With a pang, Eric realized that he really did miss Lacy sometimes, even if the clumsy lab knocked him over almost constantly. He didn’t complain when the little brown puppy came gallivanting back toward him, and he pointedly ignored it when it drooled on his shoes.

“Fetch,” he said again, hurling the stick even farther this time, and watched as the dog nearly took a tumble in some high grass in its enthusiasm, its ears flopping wildly in the air. He smiled a little, sitting back down on the steps, and waited for it to come running back.

That was how Wyatt found him nearly an hour later, once the sun had settled nearly completely into dusk. The musician merely stood in silence for a while, watching the slender little blond as he laughed and rubbed the puppy behind its ears, quietly holding the door open behind him. It was only once he noticed the stars peeking out from behind some clouds that he cleared his throat, making the pianist nearly jump in surprise.

“What’re you doing?” Eric asked with a frown. “I thought I was banned from the house forever.”

“Nah,” Wyatt replied, smirking as he cocked his hips to the side, resting against the doorframe. He held the door open with his foot. “Actually, we were thinking that maybe you would like to come inside and eat some microwave dinners, since London is such a cheapass and none of us can cook.”

Quirking an eyebrow, Eric pushed the dog away as it tried to wiggle its way beneath his arm. “I thought you said he was thrifty.”

Wyatt laughed and shrugged a little, a simple roll of his shoulders that should not have looked as elegant as it somehow did. He kicked at the door and smiled as he said, “We all lie sometimes,” and then nodded at the puppy with interest. “Who’s your friend?”

“Fetch,” Eric replied as he realized he’d assigned it a name somewhere during their play session. (Which was totally cooler than Guitar Hero, in Eric’s opinion. Not that he’d ever _tell_ anyone that.)

“Creative,” Wyatt deadpanned with a spark of humor in his hazel eyes. Pushing away from the wall, he held the door open all the way and motioned for Eric to come inside. “Come on,” he said, and then added half a beat later, “We also have Easy Mac.”

“Mmkay,” Eric agreed, mostly because he didn’t feel like arguing, and climbed to his feet. Fetch instantly began digging a hole in the ground, and Eric rolled his eyes before nudging him (he’d discovered his gender at some point) inside with his foot. Wyatt gave him a strange look, as if to say, ‘Are you _seriously_ going to let that dog stay inside with us?’ which the pianist promptly ignored.

These days, he was getting pretty damn good at ignoring things.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t until the third day that Eric discovered that Fetch was clinically insane. He learned this by doing nothing more than tapping out random rhythms on the keyboard while Wyatt and Fatty accompanied him on their respective instruments. He was exhausted, since Fetch had kept him up most of the night before by licking his toes as soon as he started to fall asleep, so he wasn’t putting much effort into it. He wasn’t doing much of anything at all, really, and so he had done absolutely nothing that would have even remotely attracted any outside attention, but Fetch had decided upon Eric for his target when he came shooting down the hallway out of _nowhere_ , pounced Eric’s feet like a cat, and then tore off maniacally into some other unknown portion of the house.

As much as Eric wanted to remain calm and masculine, he was too freaked the _fuck_ out to do anything more than emit the girliest shriek known to man and jump out of his chair, nearly bowling Wyatt over in the process. Wyatt, of course, just laughed and laughed until Eric wanted to punch him, and the pianist gave him a good, hard shove before returning to his bench.

Unfortunately, Wyatt showed no signs of wanting to continue the practice session. He sank to his knees, clutching his chest, and let his guitar fall to the floor next to him with an unhappy twang. Even Fatty looked amused, although he also seemed too afraid of Eric to do much more than clap his hands over his mouth and arch his eyebrows.

“I hate you both,” Eric declared with a noisy keysmash. That just seemed to fuel their mirth, however, and he gave an offended little huff before standing, hips jutted to the side, hands on his waist. “Seriously, shut the fuck up. It wasn’t that funny. It’s just a dog, for chrissakes.”

“It wasn’t the dog,” the singer managed to say between gasps. “It was you!”

“Me?” Mouth slanting in an angry frown, Eric’s hands migrated up, over his stomach, until his arms were crossed angrily over his chest.

Wyatt seemed beyond words at this point, so Fatty apparently took pity on him by supplying, “You scream like a girl.” And then his eyes widened, as though realizing how very _rude_ that sounded, and he reached up to cover his hands with his mouth again.

“That was the wrong thing to say,” Eric growled in a decidedly threatening tone. It probably would have had a lot more effect if Fetch hadn’t come racing crazily into the room, causing Eric to give a little yelp. At least the dog had the good grace to attack _Wyatt_ this time, who, rather than screaming, greeted the animal with fading laughter and a pat to the head. “I thought he was outside digging holes. When did he come back in?”

Wyatt shrugged, rubbing Fetch behind the ears with a fond little smile. “Does it matter?”

Eric glared. “Whatever,” he muttered. “Can we please get back to work before London comes to personally kick our asses into gear?”

“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard _you_ want to work,” Wyatt joked as he gently nudged the Fetch away and stood. His hand was a little covered in dog drool, which he wiped on his pants. Fatty made a face but didn’t comment.

“Oh, yes, haha, make fun of my work ethic.” Sitting on the edge of his bench in front of the keyboard, Eric tossed him an incredibly dirty look and cracked his knuckles. His fingers were not yet so overused that he required splints or wraps of any kind.

“Christ, you’re bitchy all of a sudden,” Wyatt pointed out as he picked up his guitar.

Absently, Eric thought that he sort of agreed with him, but failed to come up with a reason for his sudden irritability. “Sorry,” he said, hating the empty, twisting feeling in his stomach, and hesitantly put his fingers back to the keys. Both Wyatt and Fatty sent him surprised looks, which was to be expected, given the fact that the waifish blond rarely handed out apologies without a fight. Eric felt like scowling, but he didn’t really have the energy at the moment, so he just counted them off and bent to play his keyboard, hoping they would follow his lead.

 

* * *

 

The biggest problem with sharing a room with someone every single night, Eric thought, was masturbation. Not listening to it, but finding time to _do_ it. As it was, Eric was already showering once every day for the sole purpose of getting himself off while he was in there, and if he showered any more than that, he was afraid they would catch on. Either that, or diagnose him with OCD.

So, okay, maybe masturbation wasn’t the biggest problem, since he obviously found enough time to do that. No, apparently the biggest problem was containing his horniness when he _wasn’t_ jerking off. Especially when he was alone in the room with Wyatt.

“Christ,” he muttered for what must have been the third time in the past five minutes, tossing his book across the room in frustration.

Wyatt, who had been absently strumming his guitar in hopes of a sudden strike of inspiration, looked up in surprise. “Someone’s grumpy,” he teased.

“Oh, fuck off,” Eric hissed, then realized that had been the entirely _wrong_ thing to say, and that saying ‘fuck’ while looking at Wyatt was giving him some rather vivid mental images. Groaning in disturbance, he pulled his pillow over his face with the intent to suffocate himself. Thinking about sex with Wyatt was probably the _last_ thing he needed right now.

Luckily, Wyatt was used to the blond’s dramatic nature, so he shrugged off the other man’s antics with nothing more than a slight frown. And eventually, after several minutes of just breathing and willing himself to not think about anything – or, if he had to think, to think of completely non-sex-related activities, such as folding laundry. Once he thought he was ready to brace the world without getting turned on again, he lifted the edge of the pillow, caught Wyatt’s tongue just barely sticking out over his bottom lip in deep concentration, and nearly screamed.

At that moment, Eric made the abrupt decision to completely avoid him. And for the first few hours, it worked out great. The plan was simple. It was genius. It was _infallible_. But what it lacked was the serious foresight that _Wyatt lived with him_. And not just with him, but next to him, standing approximately six feet away at all times. Every night, Eric had to fall asleep listening to the rhythmic sound of the other man’s breathing, wondering what it would sound like heavier, or hitched, and that only made Eric’s situation _worse_. It kept him up at night – literally, in more ways than one – and it was driving him fucking nuts.

It was after a particularly bad night of tossing, turning, and wishing he could at _least_ be in the same bed as Wyatt that Eric realized he had a problem. His issue with Wyatt extended into the day, especially when he had a good view of the redhead’s hands while he played the guitar, and most _particularly_ when he stuck out his tongue or bit his lip while he concentrated. That by itself may not have been such a large concern, considering the fact that Eric was twenty years old and sex deprived, but there was one catch:

Eric never, _ever_ had such a strong reaction to James or Fatty. Or even a reaction at all. So, inexperienced in these matters as he was, Eric swiftly and urgently sought immediate consultation. Which meant, of course, that he slinked off to hide beneath a tree a good twenty feet away from the house and called his brother.

“Drew,” Eric whispered almost feverishly into the phone, then paused to listen for any sound to make sure there was absolutely _no one_ within a thirty foot radius who could possibly overhear this conversation. “I think I might be gay.”

To his credit, Andrew seemed to take that in stride. “For who?”

Eric took a long, quivering breath before admitting, “Wyatt.”

“Weren't you gay for him already?” asked his twin in a carefully neutral tone.

“No, you idiot!” Eric hissed, clenching his jaw in frustration. “Those were just _rumors_! Remember?”

Across the line, Eric could hear the sound of a scraping chair and Andrew sighing. “But what about all those—”

“ _Rumors_ , Andrew!” Eric repeated. If his brother had been there in person, he would have leapt across the table (or whatever hypothetical object was dividing the space between him) and shaken him by the shoulders.

“Well, apparently they weren’t just rumors,” Andrew said, and Eric could _hear_ the laughter in his tone. That bastard. He was supposed to be on _his_ side!

“You know what?” Pressing his two fingers to his temple, Eric all his will power into _not_ hurling his phone into a wall. Or the toilet. “You were obviously the wrong person to call.”

“I’m sorry,” Andrew murmured, and he probably had a lot more to say, but Eric ended the call before he could get out another word. Instead of slinking back to his bed to curl up in a little ball and either cry or will himself to turn into dust, he decided to call Peter.

“Hello?” answered a quiet, drowsy voice.

“ _Peter_ ,” he said desperately into the receiver. “Peter, you have to help me.”

“…Eric?” his best friend asked uncertainly.

“Yes,” he responded, then immediately leapt forward in the conversation. “Listen, I have something to tell you.”

“It sounds windy,” Peter noted uncertainly. “Where are you?”

“What’s it matter?” Eric snapped. Peter obviously just did not understand the severity of the situation. “I have a crisis.”

“At one in the morning?” asked the other man in a bleary, sleepy tone.

“What?” he squawked. “No, right now. I’ve been dealing with this for days, but I only just now—” And then he trailed off his angry tirade as he realized that while it was seven here, it really _was_ one o’clock in Oxford. “Oh, fuck. The time difference.”

“Yeah,” Peter said. His voice sounded flat. “The time difference.”

Feeling guilty for about a split second, Eric thought about apologizing, but when weighed against the absolute _disaster_ of Bad Wyatt Thoughts, he figured it was justified. “Oh, well – it’s too late now. You _have_ to help me.”

This conversation sounded strangely familiar. “Let me guess: your life sucks.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Eric breathed into the phone. Finally, someone who understood! “How did you know?”

“Your life always sucks,” Peter mumbled.

“…You have a point,” the slender blond admitted, slumping to sit down on a particularly ugly tree root. “I should just give up and accept my sucky-ass life.”

“Sucky-ass paints a terrible mental image, Eric,” Peter noted with a half-giggle. “You should try being more articulate for once.”

“Fuck you,” Eric responded on instinct. Now was not the time for immaturity, and he’d expected Peter to understand that, one in the morning or not.

A sigh. “Look, I know you're having a tough time, but Lex is here, and—”

“Wait,” he said, panicked, cringing at the image of Peter and Lex sharing a bed, because that line of thought _inevitably_ led to— “Please, just. Shut up. Don’t talk about Lex, or beds, or any of that.”

“Since when do you hate Lex?” the other man wanted to know.

“I _don’t_ ,” he insisted, almost desperately, and tried to calm down. He scrubbed a hand through his tousled blond hair, which was now almost indecently long, since he hadn’t gotten it cut since before the tour nearly four months ago. It was past the tips of his ears and his jaw, but it curled and flipped out to the side, so at least it looked shorter than it really was. He dreaded the day where someone saw him with wet hair, where it slicked halfway down his neck.

“Is it because I thought he was cheating?” Peter guessed after Eric had calmed down enough to breathe regularly into the phone.

And there it went, sex thoughts again, and he absolutely couldn’t handle that right now. “No, it’s not that!”

Peter must have picked up some of the hysteria in his voice and misinterpreted it. “Don’t worry, he wasn’t.” And then he paused, trying to lighten the situation with, “But I will cut off his fingers with a kitchen knife if he ever flirts with anyone again.”

At that, Eric heard soft, barely-restrained laughter in the background, and the shifting of blankets. And then Peter squeaking.

He immediately began to blush. “Uh, you know what—” bad thoughts, bad thoughts, _bad thoughts_ “—I just realized I have to, um…”

“Lex, _stop it_ ,” Peter hissed, and that was all Eric needed to hear to make the decision that he needed to end this call as quickly as possible.

“ _I have to go_ ,” he said in a rush, and hit 3 twice in his hurry to hit the ‘end’ button again. After he hung up, he ran his hands through his hair again with a gusty sigh and wondered what the hell to do next.

And then it hit him: James. James could keep a secret, and he _always_ seemed to know what to do. Or so it appeared. And now that the bassist had forgiven him for that horrible incident on the drive to Osaka, maybe he’d even be willing to help.


	14. Chapter 14

“It’s possible that I might have a small crush on Wyatt,” Eric blurted the second he’d cornered James alone. Wyatt and Fatty had already gone down to the practice room to play around with some rhythms, so Eric figured he had at least ten minutes with James before they had to rejoin the rest of the band.

Scarcely paying Eric even half a glance, James nodded accordingly and said, “Mm.”

That was not the reaction the blond had been looking for. His slim eyebrows drew together in irritation and he resisted the urge to reach out and flick the freckled man in the forehead. “No, seriously,” he pressed, thinking that perhaps James had taken it as a joke. “I think I’m attracted to him.” And then, just in case the other man still wasn’t taking him seriously, he added, “Sexually.”

James had the goddamn nerve to actually look _amused_. “I figured that came along with having a crush,” he murmured, attempting to push Eric aside so he could join the other two musicians in the practice room. “Does this have a point? Because otherwise, you’re sharing your feelings with the wrong person. I believe Wyatt would be much more interested to hear about this.”

“Some advice would help,” Eric said between gritted teeth. Was James making this so painful on _purpose_?

“Oh.” At that, James took on a thoughtful look, and he tapped his chin in contemplation before offering, “You could try kissing him.”

The blond twitched, staring at the other man with narrowed eyes. “Somehow, I don’t think that would go over very well,” he said in a low, unhappy tone.

James gave him a decidedly odd look. “Why not?”

With a roll of his eyes, Eric pretended to think for a moment before saying, “Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that it would be _totally_ out of the blue, because I’ve pretty much _hated_ him up ‘til this point, not to mention the fact that I don’t even know if he _likes_ me? Or men at all, for that matter?”

James’s expression only grew stranger and stranger. “Right,” he said eventually, and shrugged. “Well, if you don’t want to do anything about it, then I suggest you just ignore it.”

“I’ve _tried_ ignoring it.” Reaching up to tug at a piece of his hair in frustration, Eric continued snappishly, “It doesn’t _work_.”

James hummed in sympathy. “That’s too bad. You’ll just have to live with it, I suppose.”

That was definitely not the sort of advice Eric had anticipated. He’d expected a glowing pearl of wisdom, some brilliant plan that Eric, although talented, had not yet conceived. At the very least, he’d expected a compassionate pat to the shoulder, and maybe even some comfort food. Like brownies. (James looked like he baked really, really good brownies.)

“Some help you are,” the blond muttered with a scowl, and stormed out of the door, only to poke his head back in a split second later and ask in a somewhat shaky voice, “By the way, you’re not going to mention this to anyone, are you? Because I would _really_ appreciate it if you didn’t.”

“Naturally,” James conceded with a kind smile, watching as the other man turned on his heel and stomped off to the practice room.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, what Eric had come to call the Bad Wyatt Thoughts became so overwhelming that he literally could not sleep at night. He just sat in bed, staring at the ceiling, and thought about sun-warm skin, feathery-looking red hair falling across Wyatt’s forehead, and the coarse stubble darkening his jawline. It was enough to make Eric want to throw up.

Or at least it usually would have, but now it just sort of made his gut twist in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. And Eric did not like that very much. Not at all.

It ultimately reached the point where he got up the nerve to go through Wyatt’s bag while he was busy playing Guitar Hero with the others. Not for his underwear or anything perverted like that, but for the bottle of sedatives Eric knew for a fact Wyatt kept in case of emergencies. Why Wyatt was in charge of Eric’s medication, he didn’t know, but at least it finally came in handy.

It probably would have been too obvious to just take the entire bottle, so Eric settled for shaking out four pills into his hand. The label on the bottle said the dose was one pill, but he didn’t know how often he’d need to do this. The Bad Wyatt Thoughts were getting pretty intense lately.

Shaking his head at his now borderline-creepy obsession, Eric screwed the stupid prescription cap on and tossed the bottle back into the bag where he’d found it. He was just standing up when he heard Fatty call, “Eric, we need you in the practice room!” from the doorway, and he nearly pitched forward into the wall.

“How long have you been standing there?” he snapped, trying to regain his composure as he turned to face the other man.

“Uh,” Fatty replied with a confused expression. “I just got here. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Eric said, pressing his lips together in a thin, pale line, and tossed his hair out of his eyes. “And I can’t come. My wrists are bothering me again, and I’d rather not be crippled for the recording studio.”

Fatty merely pushed a cowbell into his hands in response.

“Oh, _hell_ no.” Shoving the cowbell back toward the drummer, Eric curled his lip unhappily and insisted, “I am _not_ sinking down to that level. Not in a million years.”

“But we really need it,” Fatty protested, frowning almost pathetically. “Nobody else has a hand free.”

“Then what makes you think I do?” hissed the blond.

Shrugging, Fatty took a step back and motioned down the hallway as he said, “You don’t have a part yet, so we can always work around it.” He gave Eric a pleading look. “Come on, man. We need your help.”

“Oh, whatever.” With a little huff, Eric snatched the cowbell and stuck his nose in the air, stomping down the hallway. Fatty followed meekly behind him, only moving forward to open the door, at which Eric purposely stepped on his foot as he went inside.

“Hey, nice to finally see you,” Wyatt greeted him with a painfully attractive smile. Eric wanted to stab him in the eye.

He made a noncommittal sound in response and settled himself down on his bench out of habit, tossing a murderous look James’s way when it looked like the bassist might comment. And then he grunted, “Come on, if you’re going to torture me, we might as well get it over with,” before he held up the cowbell with a sour expression. In actuality, his wrists weren’t bothering him at all, but he had to at least pretend. He didn’t even _want_ to know what Wyatt would say if he discovered the blond was faking injury to avoid spending time with him.

As the jam session progressed, Eric came to the slow, horrifying conclusion that the only thing worse than watching Wyatt play the guitar was watching him sing. Behind his piano, he had limited opportunities to observe him, but with only the stupid cowbell to play, he had plenty of time to watch the redhead’s mouth as he sang. It was sort of mesmerizing, and he’d never noticed how soft Wyatt’s lips looked before, or how wide his mouth got when he was belting out lyrics, or –

“Eric,” James broke into his thoughts gently. “You’re missing your cue.”

Sending the bassist a sulky look, Eric held up the cowbell and paused deliberately before hitting it. Once. And then setting it back down.

“Fucking Christ,” Wyatt swore, breaking off mid-riff, and turned to glare at the blond furiously. “What do we have to do to get you to participate in this?”

Eric thought the best course of action would be to pretend he had absolutely no idea what Wyatt was talking about. “I’m participating,” he insisted, tilting his chin defiantly. “I played what I thought was appropriate, is all.”

“A single note,” the redhead said dryly.

“Yes,” Eric replied, wishing Wyatt would just stop looking at him, because his eyes were really intense and hazel, and Eric had _always_ noticed that, but now it was just… different.

Wyatt made a face that looked like he’d just eaten something incredibly bitter, and jerked his gaze away to Fatty. “All right, then,” he muttered. “Cyrus, count us off.”

Pointedly ignoring his cues (because this was an experimental improv session, and he therefore did not _have_ cues), Eric actually tried to put in some effort this time. He hated the fucking cowbell, though, and he honestly could not take another second of staring at Wyatt’s face without either poking his eyes out or jumping him. Halfway through the song, he hesitantly began tapping at the keyboard, and absently hoped they all just assumed his wrists had started feeling better. Improvising was scary, and he didn’t really like the idea of possibly screwing things up, but it was better than whacking a bell every five seconds.

And it was _certainly_ better than Bad Wyatt Thoughts.

 

* * *

 

Eric was, to be quite frank, utterly fucked. In retrospect, taking sedatives to help him sleep was still a great idea – because Eric was incapable of conceiving a _bad idea_ – but in practice, it was actually quite ineffective. Or rather, overly effective.

Caught up in his eagerness to _finally_ sleep without listening to every sound made by the man not ten feet away from him, the pianist may have been a little hasty in consuming his first dose. He figured that taking it a few hours early couldn’t hurt; he’d maybe become tired somewhat earlier, and then he could retire without conflict. Or, more importantly, without Wyatt so goddamn close.

What he hadn’t remembered, however, was how unsteady he became on his feet, or how his thoughts slowed down to the point of lethargy, and his words slurred together almost drunkenly. He quickly became aware of all of these things when he realized he was sprawled out on the floor in the kitchen where he had fallen out of his chair, and he didn’t quite have the energy to get up. And that was when he mentally conceded that perhaps this hadn’t been the greatest plan in the world.

“Eric?” James asked in concern, leaning sideways to look at him underneath the table. “Are you all right?”

“M’fine,” he said, blinking leisurely at the tiled floor. He tilted his head to look at Fetch, who was sitting on the other side of the room, panting. The puppy perked his ears at him, and Eric waved a little.

“I can’t help but think you’re lying,” the bassist informed him with a skewed, frowning mouth.

Shaking his head, Eric focused very hard on pulling himself up, first onto his back, then to his knees, and then he fell back onto his ass. Eventually, he settled for pulling his knees up to his chest as he gave James a stubborn look. “I’m just tired.”

“Tired,” James repeated wryly. “Okay. I’m going to get Wyatt now.”

“No!” he protested immediately. The sedation wasn’t heavy enough to decelerate _that_ particular reaction time. Lifting his hand with a great deal of effort, he clutched James’s pant leg and gave him a pity-inspiring gaze. “No, no, nonono. Not Wyatt. If you have to get someone, then get Fatty.”

“You should really try calling him Cyrus sometime,” James commented. “He’s self-conscious about his weight because of you.”

Eric ignored that. “Please,” he mumbled as the initial adrenaline spike wore off and he began to fade back into weariness. His grip on James went lax, and he began tipping sideways.

Hastily, James made a grab for Eric’s shoulders and gave a labored grunt as he pulled him back into a sitting position. “Cyrus has about as much muscle mass as I do,” he said. “I’m not getting Wyatt to torture you. I’m getting him so you don’t pass out in the kitchen.”

Eric tried to say something like, ‘I’d much rather pass out in the kitchen than deal with Wyatt,’ but it came out garbled and unintelligible. James gave him a pointed look.

“I’ll be right back,” he assured him kindly, and then stepped over Eric’s practically comatose body to fetch Wyatt.

“Nooo,” Eric whimpered, somehow finding the strength to curl into a fetal position. He felt like he didn’t even have limbs anymore, like he was just a floating core, and his head was fuzzy. Like he was standing in a dark room with a failing flashlight, trying to shine the light on a single thought, but the beam kept fizzling off into nothingness. Under normal circumstances, it would have made him swear in frustration, but right now he felt too lifeless to even care.

What felt like eons later, James returned with Wyatt in tow, and they both stopped at the edge of the kitchen for a moment to observe the other man. He looked, for lack of a better word, pathetic, and even Fetch was sniffing him in concern. With a sigh, Wyatt rubbed one side of his face and puffed out his cheeks, at a complete loss for words.

“I think the situation speaks for itself,” James said tactfully, almost delicately, and clasped the other man on the shoulder. “Good luck.”

“Yeah,” Wyatt muttered, eyeing Eric with a sense of something akin to dread. And then James was gone, and he was left with the mission to manhandle the practically drooling blond into bed, and he had no idea how to go about doing it. Squatting next to him, he paused for a moment, taking in the dilated eyes, and pursed his lips. “You’re an idiot,” he told the other man unhappily.

“M’not,” Eric countered, stirring suddenly, and blinked at the redhead hovering above him. “I told James not to get you,” he blurted with a betrayed look.

“Well, it’s a good thing he did.” Looking distinctly displeased, Wyatt took Eric by both hands and pulled both of them to their feet. The waifish blond swayed unsteadily, leaning as far away from Wyatt as he could get without ripping his hand away. It was probably a good thing Eric couldn’t quite pull away, because he looked like he was going to topple over at any second.

“It’s a _bad_ thing,” Eric said, looking like he’d rather die than explain. He was considerably more dramatic whenever his inhibitions were lowered, and he pouted at Wyatt theatrically while tugging his hand away with little success. “I don’t like you.”

At that, Wyatt’s expression dimmed considerably, but he still looked grimly determined as he tugged the other man toward their room. “That’s too bad,” he commented lightly, and hefted him around a corner perhaps more violently than necessary. “I didn’t ask you what you thought of me.”

“I don’t like you,” Eric repeated, sluggishly, and tilted his head back to stare at the redhead. He was distantly aware of the fact that his cheeks felt like they were burning, and that probably meant he was blushing. And that sucked. “ _Really_ ,” he added for emphasis, just in case the full-body flush was starting to give him away.

Purposely ignoring the doorframe and allowing Eric’s head to bang against it, Wyatt finally managed to get Eric not only into their room, but into his bed. It had been quite a feat what with the way Eric had struggled against him the entire time, pushing against him in an almost desperate attempt to get away. “Finally,” he huffed as he pulled the blankets up over Eric’s shoulders.

“This is embarrassing,” whimpered the other man as he turned his face into the pillow. It felt cool against his blush-warmed cheeks. “I wish you’d just left me on the floor.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have decided to take a nap there.”

“Whatever,” Eric muttered, garnering the energy to glare at Wyatt over the top of his covers. “What do you know, anyway? You’re just—” _attractive, talented, generous_ “—a stupid singer in a stupid band. I never liked you, not even from the start.”

Although Eric had slurred nearly half of that together in a long string of awkward syllables, Wyatt still understood every word. Or at least Eric assumed he had, judging by the way his jaw tightened and his mouth stretched into a thin frown. The redhead looked distinctly unhappy as he backed away from the bed and nodded curtly, as though he had nothing to say to that.

Eric was absolutely exhausted by this point, but he still hated seeing that expression on Wyatt’s face, so he closed his eyes to block it out. “Can you please leave now?” he whimpered.

Wyatt didn’t respond, but Eric heard footsteps, and a door shutting, and then, “Sometimes I wish I’d never asked you to join the band.”

And that made the little blond curl into a tiny ball beneath the blankets like a sad child. Sometimes Eric wished for the same thing, probably for very different reasons, but at least he didn’t go around saying it out loud. It made him feel sort of crushed to actually hear the words fall from Wyatt’s lips, and Eric distantly wondered how it would make _Wyatt_ feel if Eric ever said the same thing.

 

* * *

 

Wyatt was in his face nearly the _instant_ Eric opened his eyes the next day.

“So,” the singer began, arms crossed closely across his chest, foot tapping, and eyes narrowed. “How come you decided to go through my bag and take your sedatives last night?”

“I was having a panic attack,” Eric lied as flippantly as he could manage while still half-asleep, then squinted at Wyatt with a tight-lipped frown. “Why did you even have them with you?”

At that, Wyatt looked decidedly uncomfortable, but he covered it with a dismissive shrug and said easily, “I didn’t know what London had in store for us, so I figured I’d better come prepared.”

“Whatever,” the blond mumbled and burrowed back into his blankets, where it was warm and comfortable. And then he paused, staring at the pillow and sheets, which were most definitely his, and his gut gave a little unhappy twist as he realized he was in his own bed. He was unused to waking up from these kinds of incidents in anything less than Wyatt’s bed, or possibly his lap.

“Hey,” Wyatt said, noticing Eric’s gloomy look, and reached forward to poke the other man in the shoulder. “Don’t be pissed, okay?”

“I’m not pissed,” snapped the blond, although he kind of was. Not with Wyatt, though. Quite contrarily, he was angry with _himself_ for even daring to find yet another thing to associate with Wyatt.

“You _sound_ pissed,” Wyatt countered.

“Well, I’m _not_ ,” Eric growled in a voice that probably wasn’t helping the situation. When Wyatt looked like he was going to say something else, the blond threw the blankets over his head in frustration and rolled toward the wall. “Please stop talking.”

Exhaling noisily through his nose, Wyatt unexpectedly snapped, “Fine.” And then, even _more_ surprisingly, he added, “I’m sorry you hate me so much,” before leaving the room. Eric jumped a little when he slammed the door behind him.

He was contemplating the pros and cons of dragging himself out of bed to apologize when his phone started vibrating on his dresser. Swatting at it twice before he actually grabbed it, Eric blinked at the screen to read the message. It instantly made him scowl.

 

From: Peter

Message: So how’s your gay boyfriend doing?

Sent: Jan 21 8:45 am

 

Fully intending to punch his best friend the next time he saw him, Eric sent back a quick reply.

 

To: Peter

Message: He’s not my boyfriend, and he’s not gay.

Sent: Jan 21 8:47 am

 

Peter must have been a fucking text message _master_ , because Eric hadn’t even closed his phone properly before it started buzzing again.

 

From: Peter

Message: Are you joking??

Sent: Jan 21 8:47 am

 

That, in Eric’s opinion, was at least ten kinds of _not funny_. Of course he wasn’t dating Wyatt. Peter’d had a front row seat to their interactions, bickering and punching and scowling at all. How could he even _joke_ about such a thing when he knew about Eric’s dramatic internal struggle about his feelings for Wyatt? (He'd told him about it soon after discovering that James was absolutely _useless._ )

 

To: Peter

Message: :O no.

Sent: Jan 21 8:48 am

 

And then, a split second later, Peter texted him back with no actual message, but a link, instead. Frowning, Eric hit enter and glared at his phone until it finally decided to load the website. His phone couldn’t quite load it properly, so the page was skewed and somewhat awkward to read, but he could read it well enough to see that it was a bio page from the band’s website.

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Eric scrolled down it with mild disinterest and a little flare of annoyance that he wasn’t listed, then paused on Wyatt’s portion. And promptly nearly had a heart attack. And then wondered why the _fuck_ he’d never read this page before.

 

To: Peter:

Message: holy shit. he’s GAY?

Sent: Jan 21 8:55 am

 

Eric felt numb. Kind of dazed. And a little bit relieved, but there was _no way_ he was letting his mind go there, so he firmly clamped down on that line of thought. _Bad brain_ , he told himself.

 

From: Peter

Message: Yeah. Your boyfriend’s a regular Lance Bass.

Sent: Jan 21 8:56 am

 

He considered replying, but the tingly, uncertain feeling seeping into his bones was enough to distract him. Carefully closing his phone, he pulled himself out of bed and began pulling clothes out of his bag. Mentally, he made plans to spend the entire day contemplating his new discovery in solitude, or at least the closest thing he could get to solitude, since he was living with three other males.

And then, he thought, he might kill himself, because this was just unfair, and the universe hated him. Wyatt was _not allowed_ to be gay, and Eric certainly was not permitted to have feelings for him, and this situation sucked a great deal, in the blond’s opinion. More than anything, though, he wanted to call Andrew and complain, but he didn’t quite think his twin would be much help in this case.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t really hate you,” Eric blurted.

Wyatt, who had been silently and maybe a little sulkily eating soggy Lucky Charms across the table, paused to stare at him. He looked confused and slightly relieved, but mostly just suspicious. “Where did that come from?” he asked.

“You’re mad at me,” Eric pointed out.

Furrowing his eyebrows, Wyatt wiped away a line of milk dribbling down his chin and said nothing. Because yeah, he was mad at Eric. Who _wouldn’t_ be mad at Eric? The irate pianist had spent the past four or five months of his life making it very clear just how much he disliked Wyatt, and the redhead had finally had enough of it.

“So?” he finally asked, poking at a balloon marshmallow with his spoon.

“So, it sucks.” Leaning across the table, Eric snatched away the stupid distracting bowl of cereal and pushed it away from Wyatt. “Stop eating and listen to me.”

It appeared that Wyatt didn’t quite like that, because he pillowed his chin on his fist and started tapping his fingertips on the table. “All right, I’m listening,” he said in what seemed to be a carefully controlled tone. His hazel eyes were narrowed, almost squinty, and if Eric were totally honest, they kind of scared the crap out of him.

Unfortunately, Eric didn’t quite know what to do with Wyatt’s attention now that he had it. He spent several moments clearing his throat and opening his mouth and immediately shutting it again as he changed his wording mid-thought. Finally, he cringed and forced out, “I’m a stupid, stubborn bastard, and I’ve been mean to you from the start for no good reason other than immaturity.”

Wyatt looked like he wanted to comment, but Eric knew that he would never get this out if he didn’t do it all at once, so he held up his hand and snapped, “No, shut up, don’t say anything,” and then pulled an absolutely horrified face and continued, “Oh my God, I don’t even know I’m being an asshole sometimes, sorry. That was rude. What I meant to say was that I’m a total jerk, and I’m sorry, and I actually really like you, so, um.”

At this point, Eric had completely run out of steam, and he was beginning to realize exactly how embarrassing that had been. He was probably blushing. “That’s all,” he mumbled, pushing Wyatt’s cereal bowl back over to him, and let his head fall onto the table with a dull thud.

“Uh.” Wyatt sounded as awkward as Eric felt. “It’s okay, I guess. Don’t worry about it.”

So Eric said, “Okay,” and stared at the wall and picked at the remains of his toaster strudel for a while. And then, when the uncomfortable silence became almost unbearable, he finally brought himself to look at Wyatt again. And he was stunned to see that other man was smiling almost privately to himself while he ate his breakfast.

That was pretty damn cool, in Eric’s opinion, so he folded his arms and rested his head atop them, peeking at Wyatt sideways whenever he felt like it. It was weird, and kind of sappy, but he thought he could maybe get used to this kind of thing. Now all he had to do was figure out if this curling warmth in his chest was for real or not, and then he would possibly mention something about it to Wyatt at some point.

 

* * *

 

“So,” James began without preamble the next day, smiling at him broadly over his crossword puzzle book. “I heard you confessed your undying love to Wyatt.”

Eric nearly tripped into the wall. He’d just woken up, and he’d been half sleep-walking into the living room to flop on the couch and watch mindless television until Wyatt finished showering so they could all go work on writing songs. (They’d finished maybe three so far, but Wyatt swore he had plenty of ideas.)

Now, however, Eric’s plan for the morning went something like this: 1) Kill James. 2) Kill Fatty, who was lounging next to James and had totally just heard the entire thing. 3) Kill himself.

“Don’t look so horror-stricken,” chided the bassist with an amused look. Closing his puzzle, he stuck his pen behind his ear and actually grinned outright at the wavering blond. “I was only joking. He did mention that you apologized, though.”

What Eric really wanted to say was, ‘I’m going to kill you, you conniving robot bastard,’ but what he actually got out went something like this: “I, uh. What. You?”

“I didn’t know you were in love with Wyatt,” Fatty commented with a half-confused, half-intrigued expression. He didn’t look quite as surprised as Eric would have imagined, however, and that made Eric very, very angry. Especially since he _wasn’t_ in love with Wyatt – he was merely attracted to him. Somewhat. Maybe.

“I’m _not_ ,” he snapped on reflex, flinging both of them scathing looks as he pushed Fatty aside to claim a couch cushion. “James is lying.”

“So you didn’t apologize to him?” asked James.

Eric’s eyebrow twitched. “I did,” he admitted grudgingly.

James’s smile turned smug. “That means I’m not a _complete_ liar.”

“Right,” Eric forced out between gritted teeth. Glowering in a way that plainly said, ‘I will _kill_ you if you ever imply I’m interested in Wyatt in front of anyone ever again,’ the blond promptly stuck his nose in the air and began brooding. Fatty looked like he wanted to ask more questions, but at Eric’s deathglare, he wisely remained quiet.

About ten minutes later, Wyatt finally emerged into the living room, wet hair lying flat against his neck, and said in a surprised tone, “Hey, you guys didn’t have to wait for me.”

Eric was rather uncomfortable with the way the little rolling droplets of water from his hair were drawing his attention to Wyatt’s chest, so he snapped wryly, “Right, because we totally could have started without our singer _and_ guitarist.”

At that, Wyatt looked kind of shocked, and Eric belatedly remembered that he was supposed to be nice now. Sheepishly, he gave the other man a contrite look and amended himself, “I mean, uh. Hi. Good morning?”

“Wow,” said Fatty in amazement from Eric’s side. “You really _did_ apologize.”

“Yeah, but not to you, buddy,” Eric muttered, and purposely stepped on Fatty’s foot as he stood and stretched. “Let’s go, then. London’s gonna be pissed if we keep slacking off.”


	15. Chapter 15

Eric didn’t realize London had scheduled them to leave on Valentine’s Day until it was already February 14th and the manager was standing in the doorway with lots of little heart-shaped cards, chocolate, and a well-rounded woman with dark, curly hair.

“Um,” said Eric awkwardly, as he was the one who had answered the door. “Who the fuck is that?”

With a vastly affronted look, London responded, “This is Sophia,” and then added half a beat later, “Cyrus’s wife.”

Sophia looked incredibly amused, and she gave Eric a wry sort of smile before she nodded to him. “Nice to meet you,” she murmured, and then brushed past him in a breeze of what smelled like cinnamon. Eric blinked as he turned to watch her, absently thinking that she probably wore the pants in the relationship, since Fatty was so meek half the time.

And then Eric’s brain came screeching to a stop. “Wait,” he said, whirling around to look at London, mouth gaping. “Fatty has a _wife_?”

“Yes.” Adjusting his grip on the candy and cards, London asked, “Could you please move aside now?”

“Fine,” Eric replied dismissively and trailed away to follow Sophia. How had he missed the fact that Fatty had a wedding ring? He was pretty sure he’d never seen one, and if Fatty had stopped wearing it, he would probably be in deep shit.

So of course Eric had to go watch.

He found Fatty and Sophia in the kitchen, where Fatty had his hands on his wife’s waist, smiling as he did nothing but listen to her talk. And then they both noticed Eric at once, and Sophia narrowed her eyes in a way that said, ‘Leave right now so I can talk to my husband or I will kill you,’ so Eric promptly retreated into the living room with wide eyes.

“Fatty’s wife is scary,” he declared as he threw himself onto the couch, taking up as much room as humanly possible without making any sort of body contact with Wyatt.

James, who was sitting across from them in the armchair, slowly raised his eyebrows. “Sophia’s here?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Eric frowned as he looked around and noticed that there was a distinct lack of love confessions and chocolate. “Where’d London go?” he wondered.

“Sorting out cards in the foyer,” Wyatt replied, somewhat distracted by the TV. Peering at it, Eric saw that he was watching a boring-looking movie, and he promptly wrinkled his nose in distaste.

“Gimme that,” he said, making a swipe for the remote. Wyatt surprised him by jerking it out of the reach at the last second. “You suck,” Eric told him with a pouty glare.

Grinning, the redhead teased, “Aren’t you supposed to be nice to me now?”

“Only when you deserve it,” Eric mumbled unhappily, and was about to carry on with a well-worded insult when London poked his head into the room.

“I have a surprise,” he announced as he swept up to them, neatly-stacked cards in hand.

Eric folded his arms and frowned. “It’s not a surprise if we already know what it is.”

Looking as though he were resisting the intense urge to smack the blond over the head, London pursed his lips and then forced a cheerful expression on his face. “These,” he explained as he passed out a stack to each of the three band members, “are from the roadies and your family.”

“My _family_?” Eric asked in rising terror as he accepted his pile of cards, staring at them with a suddenly pale face. “When did you talk to my family? There isn’t one from my mother, is there?”

London gave him a strange look. “I talked to them last week, and yes, there is one from your mother. She seems like a very nice woman.”

“She’s a fucking harpy,” Eric said, and flipped through the cards until he came to the most prim, uptight, angry-looking one he could find (as far as valentines could go, anyway), and opened it cautiously. Inside, the handwriting was small and flowing, as though to make the inevitable bitch-session softer by writing it with graceful penmanship. “Oh, hell,” he muttered, reading line after line about ‘family responsibility’ and ‘preserving the Forster name’ with a small, back-handed compliment at the end for at least getting a raise.

“You look happy,” Wyatt commented dryly. “What’d she say?”

“That I’m scandalous,” Eric replied in a flippant tone, tossing the card onto the floor.

“That’s too bad.”

Suddenly feeling dejected that his mother had been so predictable in her response, Eric merely mumbled a soft, “Yeah,” before shuffling to the next card. It was from Mitch and Simon, and it had too many Mensa-like things for him to understand.

“Don’t look so glum,” London said, appearing guilty for wreaking such havoc upon Eric by contacting his mother. “Have some chocolate,” he offered, pulling out a bag Eric had not yet noticed.

“It had better be really fucking good chocolate,” Eric warned, and then snatched the bag and peered inside. It actually did look pretty good, and the next valentine was from Andrew, so he suddenly wasn’t half as sulky as before. He opened a particularly appealing piece of chocolate and shoved it in his mouth all at once, chewing as he read Andrew’s note about how not to worry about Mom and Dad, and how cold Milwaukee was, and how Eric should probably give something to Wyatt to show him—

“That fucker,” Eric hissed under his breath, quickly shutting the card, and stuck it at the bottom of the pile. He gave London a suspicious look, wondering if the bastard had read any of the messages, and continued glaring as he sorted through the rest of the valentines for something interesting.

Eventually, he found one from Eleanor, which was pretty obvious from the way it was written on plain paper without any hearts in sight. It was also incredibly surprising, because she was supposed to be in _Africa_ , and Eric looked at London in bewilderment as he asked, “How did you find my sister?”

London appeared confused. “She was at your house.”

“ _What_?” Eric shrieked. “That bitch. She never even called me.”

And then he immediately thought: _She probably didn’t call anyone, because she’s Eleanor._ So he tried not to take it too personally, and assumed Andrew hadn’t known, either, because he was in Wisconsin. That made him feel a little better, so he focused on not scowling too much as he read through her letter. Then he choked a little. A lot, actually, because he had an entire piece of chocolate in his mouth, and he ended up making strangled noises until his eyes started watering.

“What?” he croaked when he realized everyone was staring.

“Are you quite all right?” James asked from the arm chair, where he had placidly been reading his cards and taking slow bites of his candy.

“M’fine,” he said, still feeling somewhat breathless, but mostly just embarrassed. He added by way of explanation, “My sister’s getting married, is all. It surprised me.”

“Oh, really?” Wyatt stirred and turned to face him. “That’s weird. So’s my brother.”

For a moment, Eric’s eyes widened as he had the _crazy_ thought that maybe their siblings were getting married. But then he laughed, because that would just be way too coincidental. There was _no_ fucking way.

“Yeah, weird,” Eric agreed, pushing back a number of insults he could have thrown at the redhead. _Nice_ , he reminded himself. _You’re supposed to be nice._ It was hard, though, especially when Wyatt moved to steal a piece of Eric’s chocolate, and their arms brushed, leaving a warm, galvanizing feeling everywhere their skin made contact.

“ _Anyway_ ,” the Eric abruptly said as he scrambled to his feet, _away_ from Wyatt. “Enough of this holiday bullshit. When do we get to go home?”

“You mean to the recording studio,” London corrected.

“What?” Eric stared in disbelief. “What the hell, don’t we even get a break? We just wrote an entire _album_.”

It appeared that London was entirely used to Eric’s insults now, because he merely rolled his eyes and responded, “You had an entire month off from December to January, which is nearly equivalent to four months’ worth of weekends, which is how long you spent touring.” He smiled a little. “And that’s how much time you would have gotten off if you had any other job, so I think it’s perfectly fair.”

“You…” Eric shook his head, scowling. “You’re a freak. I’ll bet you have a spreadsheet about this. I _hate_ you.”

“I’m well aware of that,” London replied cheerfully. “Don’t work yourself up. We’re not going straight to the studio tonight or anything, you know. I’ve arranged a place for us to stay while you’re recording, which is where I’m taking us you once you’re ready to go.”

Eric threw his arms out to either side. “Here’s me, being ready to go!”

“I didn’t mean just you,” London pointed out.

“What’s all the noise in here?” Sophia asked as she pulled Fatty into the room, looking half-amused, half-annoyed. It was a strange mix.

“Nothing,” Eric replied instantly.

Smirking, Sophia’s gaze zeroed in entirely on the blond, and she said, “Why do I get the feeling it’s all your fault?”

Behind her, Fatty laughed a little, and Eric glared. “What’s funny, Fatty?” he snapped.

And that had, of course, been a _terrible_ thing to say with Sophia there. Her eyes narrowed, and her lips thinned into a frown. Releasing her husband’s hand, she moved to stand directly in front of Eric and asked, “Did you just call him _Fatty_?”

“Uh, no?” Eric lied, suddenly fearing for his life.

“His name is Cyrus,” she told him in a low tone.

Leaning away from her, he obediently said, “Okay.”

“And you’re going to call him that from now on,” she pressed.

“Okay,” he repeated, looking increasingly concerned for his livelihood with every passing second, until she smiled a little and patted his cheek.

“Thank you,” she murmured and retreated back to Cyrus’s side, who looked incredibly horrified by the entire thing, but also a little pleased. Under normal circumstances, Eric would have sneered and snapped out an insult, but Sophia was scary. Why had Cyrus married such a scary woman, anyway?

From the arm chair, James chuckled and said, “It’s nice to see you again, Sophia. We really could have used you four months ago when he started.” He jerked his head to indicate the pianist.

The small woman looked immensely pleased at that, beaming and patting Cyrus on the shoulder. “Sorry I couldn’t be there. I’ll be joining you for the stay at the studio, though.”

 _That_ sure caught Eric’s attention fast. “What?” he squawked, looking horrified. “Why? Isn’t that against a rule somewhere?” Desperately, he turned his gaze to London, in hopes that the straight-edged manager would disagree.

Unfortunately, what London said was, “That’s wonderful!” as James and Wyatt nodded approvingly. Eric was obviously alone in his struggle for survival. He shoved another piece of chocolate in his mouth and pouted until they finally left.

 

* * *

 

Sophia, it turned out, was pregnant, and that was why she had decided to stay with Cyrus. It was sweet that they wanted to stay close during that, but it was also hell on everyone else, because a pregnant woman was a cranky woman indeed. Or maybe that was just Sophia’s natural disposition. Either way, it was official: Eric never wanted to be anywhere near a pregnant woman ever again.

“Hide me,” he declared dramatically as he burst into Wyatt’s room.

Staring over the top of his copy of _Rolling Stone_ , Wyatt gave him a decidedly odd look and said, “From what?”

“From _Sophia_ ,” he hissed, diving over and behind the other man’s bed when he heard the sound of waddling footsteps down the hallway.

Wyatt laughed loudly. He leaned over the edge of his bed and rolled up his magazine, shaking it in Eric’s face. “You’re afraid of Cyrus’s wife?”

Eric briefly considered lying, but he figured Wyatt would be less likely to help him that way, so he blurted, “Yes.” And then he shimmied himself underneath Wyatt’s bed and stuck out his arm to flash a thumbs up. “Lie for me, okay?”

“Uh,” Wyatt said, and Eric sincerely hoped that meant yes, because Sophia came into the room about two seconds later. From his vantage point under the bed, he could see her feet as they came right up next to Wyatt.

“Where is he?” she demanded flatly.

“Who?” he asked, blessedly neutral.

“Eric.”

From his hiding spot, Eric cringed at her tone. It sounded sour, and mean, and out of place. Weren’t pregnant women supposed to be glowing or something? Sophia was just mean. And cruel. Eric hadn’t even done anything to her, other than eating her lunch. Pregnant women sure were bitchy about their food…

“Haven’t seen him,” Wyatt said, somewhat unconvincingly, and Eric held his breath. If she found out, he was totally dead. Beyond dead. Zombie dead.

“Okay,” replied Sophia slowly, suspiciously, but Eric was relieved to see her feet retreating back to the doorway. Once he felt that she was safely down the hallway, he slid out from under the bed, bumping his head once on the frame, and emerged with a grateful look.

“I owe you,” he mumbled, brushing dust bunnies out of his hair, and climbed to his feet to join Wyatt on the bed. “Are we in there yet?” he asked, pointing to the other man’s copy of the _Rolling Stone_.

“Nope.” The redhead uncurled it and flipped to what seemed to be a random page.

Making a face, Eric snatched the magazine out of Wyatt’s hands without asking, squinting at the article. “If we’re not in it, then what’s the point of reading it?”

The singer stared in utter bafflement. “Are you kidding?” he asked, disbelieving.

“Nope.” Tonguing his cheek, Eric thumbed through the pages and attempted to find something that looked at least mildly interesting. No luck. “Who’s Bob Bryar?”

“You’re not human,” Wyatt muttered, grabbing the magazine. “Why don’t you go bother James or something?”

Eric raised his eyebrows, surprised. “I thought we were being nice to each other now.”

“Only when you deserve it,” Wyatt mocked him with a smug smirk.

Mouth dropping open, Eric’s face scrunched, insulted, and he jabbed the other man in the chest with his pointer finger. He was unable to think of an appropriate comeback, however, so he deflated and drew away with a sulk. “You earned that,” he conceded with a frown.

“Wow,” Wyatt said, blinking at him. “I didn’t expect that.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked with a scowl.

“Ah, that’s more like it.” He grinned. Rolling the magazine again, he poked Eric’s cheek with it and laughed, “You didn’t look nearly grumpy enough.”

“I’m not grumpy,” Eric argued with an exceedingly cranky glare. And then he seemed to realize what he was doing, because he blushed and pushed the magazine away. “Oh, shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything!” protested Wyatt, who was still grinning.

“You were thinking it.” Crossing his arms, Eric jutted out his lower jaw and raised his chin in what he hoped was a defiant expression. Or pouty. Pouty worked, too.

“Well, yeah,” Wyatt admitted. “Can you blame me?”

Eric wanted to snap, ‘ _Yes_ ,’ but he managed to hold his tongue. Instead of saying something cutting or rude, he excused himself with, “Well, anyway, thanks for saving me from Sophia,” and abruptly left the room.

Being civil with Wyatt was starting to take its toll. Eric no longer pulled scathing insults out of the air, and his glares, he was certain, were beginning to lose their potency. In order to preserve his bitchy bantering skills, he would probably have to start spending more time with Sophia, even if it cost him his life.

It was either that or finally submit to holding intelligent, adult conversations with Wyatt (which was next on the list after ‘civil’), which could only end in disaster. Because Wyatt seemed pretty well-informed and interesting, and if he found any more things to like about him, he was going to kill himself. Attraction he could handle; _crushes_ he could handle; but love? Oh, hell no.

Eric Forster did not fall in love.

 

* * *

 

The more time he spent in the recording studio, the more Eric missed the country house – and that was the _last_ thing he had ever expected to happen. He hated the studio, though. The live room felt like a little prison, and they made him play the same part over and over and _over_ , picking at him for little nuances he hadn’t even noticed. And most of the time he wasn’t even allowed in the control room, because he was a ‘distraction,’ which Eric thought was complete bullshit.

Beyond that, though, he sort of really missed playing with just Wyatt, James, and Cyrus, without any stupid sound technicians hanging around and criticizing them. He hadn’t realized how much he’d liked playing the keyboard under the little yellow bars from the blinds as the sun rose until he came here. And he didn’t want to admit it, but he missed Fetch.

What pissed him off more than anything was probably the fact that Sophia got to go wherever she pleased. Wherever Cyrus went, she followed, and nobody complained when _she_ wanted to stand in the control room and watch Cyrus playing in the studio. All she had to do was absently rub her belly as she spoke, and suddenly everyone began falling all over themselves to—

“Hey, Eric,” Wyatt broke into his thoughts as he bounded down the steps to where Eric was waiting outside the building. It was fucking cold, but Eric didn’t care, and he burrowed deeper into his scarf with his hands in his pockets. If he couldn’t get what he wanted, then he was going to make people feel bad for not giving it to him by slowly freezing himself to death.

“What?” he responded with a dark, brooding expression.

“I asked them if they’d let you observe the vocal booth,” Wyatt said, pointing over his shoulder. “They said yes, if you want to come.”

Eric furrowed his eyebrows. “What the hell is the vocal booth?”

“Um,” he said, looking a bit taken aback, as though he couldn’t believe Eric was actually _asking_. “It’s a booth. For vocals. You know,” he jabbed his chest with his thumb to indicate himself, “for me?”

“Oh, right.” Flushing, he ducked his head and stared at the ground. “Yeah, sure.”

“Cool,” Wyatt replied enthusiastically, and Eric glanced up to say something else, but he trailed off when he realized that the other man was actually _beaming_.

That was an expression Eric had never before evoked.

“Um,” he choked, trying to think of what he’d been about to say mere moments before, but ultimately came up empty. Kicking at the ground with his toe, he tossed his now almost ridiculously long hair (ridiculous for Eric meant level with his jawline) out of his eyes and muttered, “Okay, let’s go.”

Eric quickly discovered that this had been a very bad idea, because he was the only one watching Wyatt through the little glass window aside from the studio staff. If he were honest with himself, Eric would admit that it was a lot more intimate than what he was currently comfortable with. Or maybe not. Maybe he _wanted_ to—

“Oh, shut up,” he snapped at himself, and then looked immensely self-conscious as the staff member gave him a curious, almost annoyed glance. He hoped that hadn’t been enough to get him kicked out already. “Um,” he said, hoping to direct the attention away from himself, “when is he going to start?”

“Right now,” responded the sound tech, and he leaned forward to push a button and spoke into a microphone, “Okay, Mr. Edwards, go ahead.”

 _Mr. Edwards_? Eric echoed in his head. He’d only ever called him Wyatt or douchebag or jackass before. It was weird to hear it any other way.

Christ, why was he even thinking about this? It was stupid. And Wyatt was singing, so he should really stop the whole internal monologue thing.

Biting his lip, he squinted his eyes and folded his arms and pretended to be as disinterested as possible as he watched Wyatt perform. The last thing he needed right now was for the stupid _sound tech_ to find out he had a big gay crush on the lead singer of his band. And the fact that he really, really liked Wyatt’s mouth, and his hands and his knuckles as he held the headphones over his ears, and – fuck, well, just about everything – none of that was helping.

The sound tech seemed oblivious to all of this, but just to make sure he didn’t think Eric was noticing or appreciating any of it, Eric gave a bored little huff and jutted his hip to the side. He hoped it looked apathetic enough. Bored, even. Scornful would have been great, but he didn’t think he could pull that off right now.

“Nice job,” Eric commented once Wyatt was finished and they were both outside the live room.

“Yeah?” Wyatt asked, and he looked a little shy. “Thanks. I hate doing that.”

Blinking a little, Eric couldn’t help the little intrigued flash in his eyes or the way he eagerly brushed his hair away from his cheek. “Really?”

Wyatt made a distasteful face. “Yeah, it’s horrible. I get claustrophobic sometimes.”

Eric grinned outright. “Oh? Who’s got the crazy phobias now, huh?”

“Oh, shut up,” Wyatt said, pushing at Eric’s shoulder, but he was smiling.

“Whatever.” Chewing the inside of his cheek to keep his grin from growing, he jammed his hands into his pockets and shuffled his feet. He felt awkward all of a sudden, out of things to say, no snappy comebacks rolling of his tongue. And oh God, this was it, this was Intelligent Conversation Time, and he wasn’t ready to start liking Wyatt that much, so he blurted out, “Do you think we’re done for the day?” in a garbled rush.

“What was that?” the redhead asked, blinking.

Eric let out an internal sigh of relief. _Bullet dodged_ , he congratulated himself, before he repeated, “I asked, do you think we’re done for the day?”

“Oh.” With a thoughtful look, Wyatt glanced down at his watch and shrugged. “Maybe,” and then corrected himself half a second later, “Probably.”

“Mm,” Eric said, and then, before Intelligent Conversation Time could arise again, he continued, “I’m gonna go find Cyrus and James, then. See ya.” And then he hurriedly scuttled off in a random direction, flipping his scarf over his shoulder.

God help him the day he couldn’t avoid it any longer.

 

* * *

 

The day Eric decided he didn’t actually hate Sophia was the very same day she discovered Eric’s attraction/obsession/crush/most-definitely-not-love concerning Wyatt.

It happened completely by chance, like most unfortunate things in Eric’s life did. He had been shut away in his room, mid-bitch session with Andrew, complaining about the myriad problems in his life – which was mostly composed of Wyatt-related things – when Sophia ripped open the door.

Now, up until this point, nobody except James, Peter, and Andrew knew of Eric’s little crush. Eric had been in the middle of a very loud complaint about how he was going to commit honorable suicide if Wyatt invited Eric to watch him in the vocal booth again, because it was probably the hottest thing he had ever seen in his _life_ , and he was very not okay with that. Andrew was also not quite okay with hearing this, but Eric ignored that. Neither was Sophia, apparently, because she stopped in her tracks and stared at him.

At first, they just stayed like that, staring at each other. Eric’s eyes had never been wider, the blue almost intensified by the horror, and Sophia’s mouth was a wide _o_ of surprise. And then they both moved at once, Eric snapping his phone shut and actually hurling it at her, while Sophia moved fully into the room and slammed the door behind her. Eric’s phone hit the door and bounced off, exploding into plastic and batteries (but not broken, luckily), and Sophia gaped at him in shock.

“Did you just attack a _pregnant_ woman?” she hissed.“Uh,” Eric said as he realized that yes, he had, and that it had probably been a very bad decision. “Yes?” he answered weakly.

“Why would you do that?” she demanded, striding confidently and dangerously across the room until she was right in front of him, nose-to-nose, dark brown eyes squinted like tiny black holes trying to suck out his soul. Or maybe that was just Eric being dramatic again. It probably was.

“Because,” he said, feeling lame, and began fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “You heard me.”

“Well.” She didn’t look like she had much of an excuse or an argument for that. “You shouldn’t have left your door unlocked,” she finally pointed out.

“Sorry,” he muttered with a sarcastic roll of his eyes. This was a definite improvement; he suddenly had the upper hand. “I wasn’t expecting crazy women to come bursting inside.”

“I’m not crazy,” she corrected him testily.

Annnnd there went the upper hand, just like that. Sighing, he rubbed both hands over his face and gave a little grunt. “Okay, you’re right. I’m sorry.” A look of terror passed over his face as he hastily begged, “Please don’t tell Wyatt.”

“Wyatt?” she asked, looking even more stunned. “You were talking about _Wyatt_?”

He gritted his teeth and cursed himself internally for giving it away. “Who did you _think_ I was talking about?”

Giving a little shrug, Sophia somehow managed to compose herself and look less utterly scandalized. “James,” she said off-handedly. “Or Cyrus. But now that I think about it, Wyatt makes sense.”

If possible, Eric looked even more horrified. “Is it that obvious?”

“Well, no,” she replied, and then paused thoughtfully before she changed her answer. “Yes, actually.”

“Fuck,” Eric swore, dropping onto his bed. His knees suddenly felt weak. “Fucking fuck.”

“Don’t be a baby,” Sophia chided him in a way that seemed almost James-like.

“I’m _not_ ,” he whimpered, but he totally was, and he took it upon himself to curl up in a fetal position on top of his bedspread. It was a truly inspiring display of self-pity, and Sophia was absolutely not standing for it.

“Get up,” she ordered, and grabbed him by one skinny arm, hurling him to at least a sitting position again. “I’m not going to tell Wyatt.”

“Thank God,” he said in a rush of relief. Allowing himself to sag against her, he clutched her hand and murmured, “Thank you. I’m sorry I called your husband Fatty for five months. You’re a wonderful person and I shouldn’t have attacked you with my phone.”

Sophia didn’t really know how to take that. Looking suspicious, she jerked her hand away and asked, “What’s wrong with you?”

“Very funny,” he muttered, pulling away from her to glare.

“Ah, that sounds more like Eric.” She smirked. “Thought I’d lost you for a minute.”

“I’m working on my heartfelt apologies and thank you’s,” he explained with a nonchalant shrug.

“I see,” she said with a laugh. “Well, you’re getting very good. Just work on the melodrama a little, okay?”

“Okay.” And then the initial rush of adrenaline wore off, and his heartbeat slowed only to reveal the lingering sense of apprehension. “Do you swear you won’t tell him?”

“Why would I tell him?” she questioned, amused.

Eric absolutely did not like when people were amused at his expense. “To torture me,” he supplied with a childish pout.

“I wouldn’t do that,” she assured him, and then she smiled, and it was warm and glowing instead of mean and cranky. And just like that, he decided maybe she wasn’t so bad after all, and that Cyrus was probably a pretty lucky guy. (Especially since Cyrus couldn’t stand up for himself to save his life, and he needed someone like Sophia to bitch people out for him.)

 

* * *

 

After all the fucking stress of writing and recording an entire album, Eric had sort of wanted another break to just be a normal person for a while. But no. Of course not. Now they had to go promote the damn thing, and that made Eric want to stab himself in the eye with the nearest available pointy object. Or, at this point, blunt object – he was desperate enough to make it work.

“I am _not_ signing any more autographs,” Eric told London adamantly the second the he brought up the subject. “I absolutely refuse.”

“You can’t refuse,” London said, sounding completely exasperated and a little tired.

“Well, I just did,” he muttered as he stuck his nose resolutely in the air. He was tired, and his wrists hurt, and he’d just recorded an entire fucking _album_ , for chrissakes. If he didn’t get a break soon, he was going to punch someone in the goddamn face, and he refused to be held accountable for that.

“Listen,” the manager murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing, “Eric, what do you want?”

“Time off,” he instantly replied.

Cringing as though the mere idea of time off hurt him deeply, London offered, “How does a week sound?”

“Oh, man, a whole week,” Eric snorted, although secretly he was very excited. A week sounded wonderful – fucking _fantastic_ , actually. If at all possible, however, he was going to hold out for more. A conspiratorial glance exchanged with his bandmates confirmed that this was, indeed, a very good idea.

“ _Fine_ ,” London forced out, jaw clenched. “Two weeks, but that’s as far as I’m going.”

Brightening instantly, Eric unfolded his arms and sat up straighter in his chair. “’kay,” he said, suddenly grinning, and made a mental scoreboard of all the times he’d gypped London to date.

It went like this:

 

Eric: 98348

London: 0

 

Although in reality, the score was something more like this:

 

Eric: 3

London: 1

 

But at that moment, Eric really couldn’t have cared less what the actual score was. He’d won this time, and that was all that mattered. Finally, he was going to get a break, and that, quite frankly, kicked _ass_.


	16. Chapter 16

Surprisingly enough, Eric spent his two-week vacation from the band… _with_ the band. Plus Sophia, of course.

They hadn’t exactly planned on it. It just sort of happened, really. They all lived in the same area (thus how Eric landed the roadie position to begin with), and they all had a lot of free time on their hands, so they just ended up calling each other out of sheer boredom and decided to hang out. And that was how Eric ended up on a couch in a basement with Wyatt. In the dark. With a movie.

"We're watching _Sleepless in Seattle,_ " Sophia declared as soon as she eased herself onto the open cushion between Cyrus and James. When Eric gaped at her in horror, she merely narrowed her eyes and snapped, "I'm pregnant and we're watching it and that's that."

Eric couldn't really argue with that, so he sulked and threw himself down onto the other couch, taking up all the space not occupied by Wyatt. Wyatt didn't look very happy about the whole chick flick situation, either, and that made Eric feel a little better. At least they could suffer together.

…and he really wished he hadn't just thought about them doing anything together, because his brain always trailed down the same disturbing paths when that happened. Shaking his head to keep himself from getting any, ah, _interesting_ mental images, he sat up in his seat and crossed his legs. Because seriously, if he became visibly horny in the middle of _Sleepless in Seattle_ , he would never live it down, so he might as well be ready to hide it.

Belatedly, he noticed that he was now on the middle cushion, which meant he was almost pressed up against Wyatt. Their knees were nearly touching, and he could feel a solid line of heat emanating from the other man, warm and comforting. He absently thought that he wouldn't mind being wrapped up in that warmth, waking up to it every morning, waking up to _Wyatt_ , and—

 _Oh, fuck_ , he realized wildly. _I did_ not _just imagine that_.

And that was when to think that maybe this wasn't just a crush, because he was pretty sure most crushes started and stopped with mostly physical attraction. And here he was, suddenly imagining nothing more than stretching in the first rays of morning light and smiling at Wyatt as he slept next to him, settling down on the pillows just to watch him breathe. And _that_ , he thought, was starting to sound like something a little beyond a crush.

Eric was not sure what to do with this new information. Sneaking a glance at the redhead beside him, he bit his lip and contemplated his options. He could a) do nothing and torture himself until the feeling subsided, which was incredibly unlikely, b) find a new love interest, which was also _very_ unlikely, or c) make a move. He wasn’t particularly fond of option number one, given the whole torture part, and if Eric could have fallen in love with somebody else, he figured he would have done it already, since this whole horny pining thing sort of sucked. However, Eric did not quite feel comfortable making a move at this point, so he was stuck without a solution.

Well, sort of, anyway. He could always…

"This movie sucks already," he muttered louder than necessary, earning himself a sharp glare from Sophia. Pretending to cringe, he shifted closer to Wyatt as though for protection, and then leaned close enough to whisper, "It really does, though. I think this is the first time I've called something sucky and been right."

At that, Wyatt laughed, hiding his mirth behind his hand in case Sophia decided to lunge across the couch and kill them both for ruining one of her favorite movies. Wyatt gave him what seemed to be an affectionate grin and said, "It's not so bad if you ignore the fact that it's a chick flick." And then, at Eric's surprised expression, he elaborated, "My mom used to watch it all the time."

Wyatt, Eric assumed, had thought he was surprised by the fact that the singer had seen the movie before. However, Eric was now aware of the fact that Wyatt was, indeed, gay, so that hadn't really been much of a shock. What Eric had been startled by was the fact that Wyatt's smile looked warm and kind of gentle, much like what the blond had imagined seeing earlier during hypothetical mornings in a shared bed.

 _This isn’t good_ , Eric thought, darting a somewhat hysterical glance in Wyatt’s direction. This was probably the worst thing that could have happened at this point – _especially_ right now, in the middle of a low-lit basement with the singer a scant few centimeters away. He was going to start hyperventilating if he didn’t get some serious space put between them soon.

It seemed that Wyatt had grown familiar with the first signs of Eric’s freak outs, because he gave the blond a concerned look. Quietly, so that Sophia didn’t gut them both for speaking over Tom Hanks’s dialogue, he dipped his head down to whisper, “You okay?”

Eric jumped at the sensation of hot breath against his ear and let out an embarrassing noise not unlike a squeak. At Wyatt’s amused look, he frowned and crossed his arms with a contumacious glare. “It’s not funny,” he muttered.

“All right,” Wyatt conceded, looking apologetic as he reached up to run his fingers through his hair. “Are you sure you’re okay, though?”

“Yes,” Eric said, although he was one hundred percent certain that he was _not_ okay.

“Stop being girls and be quiet,” snapped Sophia from the other couch.

Cringing, the blond uncrossed his arms and made a contrite face, and then nearly had a heart attack when he’d realized he’d set his hand down way too close to Wyatt’s. He glanced at the other man out of the corner of his eye, biting his lip, and tried to glean whether or not he’d noticed. All signs pointed to no, judging by the relaxed slump of his shoulders and content smile, and that was when Eric had to rip his gaze back to the television before his brain got any ridiculous ideas, like holding hands.

And then there was suddenly intense warmth against the curve of his palm, and his heart gave a pained spasm as he looked down and saw that their hands were touching, just barely, side by side. Had his hand _seriously_ just moved independently of his mind? Horrified, he turned his head just enough to examine Wyatt’s face with wide eyes, but the other man still appeared perfectly unflustered.

 _Oh, God_ , he thought to himself, feeling a blush strike his cheeks, and silently willed the couch to please open into a black hole and swallow him whole. He didn’t dare move lest he draw attention to his traitorous hand, so that left him feeling awkward and unsafe. It was a good thing that there weren’t any pointy objects nearby, because he probably would have stabbed his stupid hand to death.

Eric had just decided to try to ignore the entire situation and watch the movie when he felt fingers brushing against his, slowly, almost experimentally, and his breath hitched as he looked down to see that they were Wyatt’s. Eric’s hand gave an involuntary twitch as his chest spasmed, not unpleasantly, and he quickly directed his gaze back to the movie. _This is not happening_ , he told himself, even as he hesitantly stretched his fingers, skirting over Wyatt’s knuckles. _There is no way in hell this is happening_.

But it was, and Wyatt had just hooked their pinkies together, and Eric had to swallow roughly to suppress a sound of surprise. He half-expected some Bad Wyatt Thoughts to flash through his mind, but instead he simply felt mildly light-headed and unsteady. Not necessarily in a bad way. Studiously keeping his face forward, expression neutral, he tentatively slid his hand entirely into Wyatt’s.

If they had been anywhere else, Eric probably would have been freaking out. Not that he wasn’t already, but that was all internal, with frantic bubbles of elation and apprehension clouding his thoughts. Rather, if this had happened somewhere more private, instead of Cyrus and Sophia’s basement, he would have been pulling away and babbling unintelligibly out of pure nervousness.

Fate, apparently, had it in for Eric tonight, and had arbitrarily destined him to embarrass himself to the point of utter mortification. Not only did Wyatt interlace their fingers without even looking at him, he rested their hands atop Eric’s knee, and that sent a spark through Eric’s chest so strong that he abruptly jumped to his feet without thinking.

“Um,” he said, flushing hotly when he realized everyone was staring at him, and blurted, “I have to pee!” before he stumbled up the stairs and into the hallway. He nearly fell at the threshold to the bathroom, and then he remembered that he didn’t actually have to pee at all, so he merely leaned his head against the doorframe and felt sick to his stomach. Whatever this was, he wasn’t ready for it to be real yet.

Absentmindedly, Eric thought that he probably should have been expecting Wyatt to follow him upstairs, but it caught him off guard regardless. Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder, practically scorching him through his shirt, and he instantly knew who it was. “Leave me alone,” he muttered morosely.

“Listen,” Wyatt said, turning Eric to face him. “Sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I wasn’t trying to—”

And then the tenuous hold Eric had on his self-control unexpectedly caved, and he exploded. “Shut up,” he snapped, because he honestly couldn’t handle this kind of bombshell right now. Five minutes ago he’d been adjusting to the idea of living with Bad Wyatt Thoughts for the rest of his life and never acting upon them, and now he had to deal with the pulsing, staggering warmth in his chest that he was too frightened to name.

Wyatt looked stunned, but mostly hurt. He opened and closed his mouth twice before finally asking, “You’re not going to quit the band, are you?”

Under different circumstances, Eric would have told him he was retarded, but right now his heart was beating too fast for him to think about anything beyond getting the hell out of dodge. “Just, please, shut up,” he said again, and his knees suddenly felt weak, so he let himself slide down the wall to sit. This was either the best or worst day in his life, and he couldn’t quite decide which.

“Do you want me to go?” Wyatt asked.

 _Yes_ , his brain screamed. This was terrible and embarrassing and he just wanted to be alone, but instead he surprised himself by saying, “No.” And he was even more surprised to realize that he really meant it, and he tentatively lifted his head to look at Wyatt through his eyelashes. “How did you know?”

Wyatt’s face showed an epic rush of relief. “Know what?”

“That I—” _liked you_ , Eric started to say, but he choked on his own rising panic, because this wasn’t real, there was no way this could be happening, and he felt utterly helpless. He waved his hands uselessly. “That I, you know.”

“Oh,” Wyatt said, smiling a little. Now that Eric appeared less like he was going bolt at the first sign of movement, Wyatt dropped to sit next to him on the floor. “I didn’t,” he explained simply. “I’ve been flirting with you for like, two months now, and you haven’t exactly turned me down, so I guessed.”

For a moment, Eric’s mouth merely worked tacitly, and then his over-loaded brain started to process everything at all at once, particularly Wyatt’s invitation to watch him in the vocal booth. “And you didn’t _tell_ me?” he growled.

“Uh.” Wyatt stared at him in confusion, as though anger hadn’t been on his list of possible reactions. “Sorry?” he offered uncertainly.

That was all the motivation Eric’s brain needed to kick into bitch mode. “I didn’t even know I was gay until like three months ago!” he snapped. Seething, he drew himself up to a standing position, towering over him, and glared. “Do you have any idea how _upsetting_ that was? And you knew the _entire time_?”

“Not the whole time,” he tried to disagree, but Eric was having none of it.

“You jerk!” he declared, kicking him lightly in the knee. “I don’t even know why I like you!” And then his heart started pounding as he realized he’d just admitted it to Wyatt’s face, and he turned his head away as he blushed. This situation was going downhill fast.

“Hey,” Wyatt said, and Eric jumped a little when his voice came closer than he expected. “I thought you were supposed to be nice to me now.”

“Only when you deserve it,” he replied gruffly, tossing the other man a disgruntled glance. Wyatt was smiling a little too widely, and Eric felt like either punching him or kissing him. “Don’t look so fucking smug.”

“Okay.” And then Wyatt took his hand, eyes kind, and clasped his warm fingers over Eric’s.

Eric stared at their hands with a detached sense of awe as he tried to mentally adjust to the idea of this being okay. That Bad Wyatt Thoughts weren’t really so bad, although he suspected it was probably still inappropriate to imagine Wyatt’s orgasm face while they were eating dinner. Then he was struck by the sudden realization that he might actually see it sometime in the future, and he clutched Wyatt’s hand hard, feeling dizzy.

Of course, there was no way that everyone downstairs could ignore the noisy drama unfolding above their heads. Both Eric and Wyatt’s heads snapped towards the stairs as Cyrus ascended them. The drummer looked wide-eyed and startled when he saw them, and he numbly jerked his thumb over his shoulder as he said, “Sophia and James want you to know that we can hear everything you’re saying.”

“Great,” Eric spat, resolutely ignoring the heat in his cheeks. “Can you please tell them to shut up and mind their own business?”

“Umm,” Cyrus said, too shell-shocked to move. “I think Sophia would kill me if I told her to do that.”

“Then improvise,” the blond suggested acidly.

“Okay,” Cyrus replied, and paused a moment longer to stare at them in bewilderment before he turned around and trudged back down the stairs.

Wyatt watched him go bemusedly. “Should we go back now?” he wondered.

“No,” Eric snorted wryly. “We should stay up here and make them even more awkward.”

“Ah,” Wyatt said, and when he turned to Eric, he was grinning. “I was wondering where your sarcasm went. You were starting to freak me out.”

“Shut up and walk,” Eric ordered, attempting to smother his own smile. He was still unsteady about the whole thing, engulfed in the strange novelty of it all, but he had the state of mind to jerk on Wyatt’s hand and drag him toward the staircase. “I don’t want them to think we’re making out or anything.”

Wyatt laughed at that, and Eric’s chest gave a happy jolt, and he promptly forced himself to scowl. He would rather kill himself than let the rest of the band see him doing something as ridiculously girly as swooning. If they’d seen, he never would have heard the end of it.

 

* * *

 

If Wyatt had thought he could get away with making a move on Eric and not explaining himself before the night was done, he was sorely mistaken. It wasn’t every day that Eric verbally admitted to liking someone, and he was going to take it as a severe blow to his ego if Wyatt left without giving him a concrete idea of where they stood with each other. And that was why Eric took it upon himself to intercept Wyatt as the redhead was saying goodbye to Cyrus and Sophia.

“Excuse me,” he said irritably as he latched onto the singer’s arm and promptly pulled him away.

“Um,” Wyatt replied, somewhat bewildered, and shot Cyrus and Sophia an apologetic look as he was dragged off. They looked more amused than anything else, however, so Eric assumed they didn’t care. Either that or they were sadistic bastards, which was actually a pretty big possibility, now that Eric thought about it.

No matter. Interrogation time.

“You held my hand,” he began in an accusing voice as he nearly shoved Wyatt into one of the decorative shrubs in front of the house.

Wyatt looked caught, hazel eyes wide, as though he weren’t quite sure how he was supposed to answer that. He hunched his shoulders and offered an awkward-looking smile as he uncertainly replied, “Uh, yes?”

“Shut up,” Eric snapped, which was especially confusing to Wyatt, since the blond had just asked him a question. Squinting, Eric crossed his arms and lifted his chin haughtily in what he hoped was a confident, daunting manner. Inside, he was having a massive freak out, because if Wyatt told him the whole thing had been a giant mistake, he was probably going to die of embarrassment. Or disappointment. He wasn’t sure which.

With a confused look, Wyatt held his hands up defensively and said, “Oookay.”

“Don’t actually shut up,” Eric told him quicker than he would have liked, and over-compensated for his moment of weakness by glaring. “Why did you do that?”

“Do what?” Wyatt asked weakly, already cringing in expectation of Eric’s ire.

“Why did you touch my _hand_ , dumbass?” At this point, he couldn’t quite contain his nervousness, so he began compulsively tapping his foot and thinned his lips into a pale line.

Wyatt gave him a look that clearly questioned his sanity. “I thought we already went over this.”

 _Crap_ , thought the pianist, because they sort of had, and now he had no excuse for his sudden burst of insecurity. “Well,” he mumbled, tossing his head so that his hair fell into his eyes, hopefully shadowing his anxious expression. “What did it mean, then?”

Finally, Wyatt seemed to grasp the situation, because the next thing Eric knew, Wyatt was touching his elbow and pushing Eric’s bangs out of his face. “Hey,” he said softly.

“What?” Eric asked, faking indifference, and pretended like Wyatt’s fingers weren’t trailing fire along his arm.

“I suppose you wanted something a little more formal, then?” Wyatt guessed, sounding amused, and when Eric looked up, the smug bastard had the nerve to grin. Wyatt moved his hand from Eric’s elbow to his palm, curling his fingertips to touch the ridge of Eric’s knuckles. “I never would have pegged you as the traditional type.”

“Fuck you,” Eric said, and stepped on his foot.

By this time, Wyatt had become completely immune to Eric’s asshattery. He just rolled his eyes at the blond’s antics and moved his shin out of kicking distance on sheer impulse. “I assume I should take that as a yes?”

“Whatever,” he mumbled, purposely dodging his gaze.

Wyatt just laughed and nudged him with his shoulder. “Okay, then. Let’s see, I haven’t done this in a while.” Suddenly shy, he pushed up his glasses with one finger and smiled. “I guess, um. Do you want to go out or something?”

Eric lifted his head to stare at him before he frowned and said, “That was pretty lame.”

Wyatt shrugged sheepishly, his face reddening. “Well, maybe if you hadn’t caught me off guard by dragging me into the bushes, I could have come up with something a little better.”

“Hmph.” Sticking his nose in the air, Eric regarded the other man in mock-indecision before he said, “Fine.”

“Fine what?”

If Eric weren’t so damn pleased with Wyatt at the moment, he might have punched him. Er, again. …Actually, that probably would have been a bad idea, considering the fact that the last time Eric had done that, he’d been banned from rooming with Wyatt for a while.

“I guess it wouldn’t be so bad to date you,” he admitted, then smirked and instantly tacked on, “Or something.”

Wyatt took it all in stride, though. He just laughed and pushed at Eric’s shoulder, looking unfairly amused by the whole thing. “You guess, huh?”

“Yeah,” Eric said, finding himself smiling unexpectedly. It felt strange to be so happy because of something Wyatt had done, but he supposed he was going to have to get used to it. “I can’t be sure, though. Are you still going to be a bastard?”

“Probably,” replied the other man without pause.

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Eric took a moment to look at Wyatt, contemplative. The singer’s eyes were soft, his grin unrepentant, and even though he’d shaved that morning, he already had the faint signs of stubble darkening his jaw line. “I think I can live with that,” he said eventually, and smiled.

And then he realized he was being stupid and sappy, so he kicked Wyatt in the knee.

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, CD promotion wasn’t all that bad. All it really involved was going on talk shows, playing a few songs, and hosting some crap on MTV and VH1. Eric would have felt guilty for pitching such a fit about it, but considering the, ah, _events_ that transpired during the break, he really couldn’t have cared less.

London, however, seemed to be out for revenge. The day after the last publicity stunt, he announced that he had a surprise. For Eric. _Apparently_ , he’d discovered the blond’s birthday was only a few weeks away, and he had arranged for a party.

“This is stupid,” Eric muttered as London herded him into the house. “It’s a terrible idea and I don’t want to go.”

The manager merely rolled his eyes and puffed out a sigh, steering Eric through the doorway. As much as Eric complained, he wasn’t digging his heels like he usually did, so London assumed he wasn’t as put out by the idea of a birthday party as he appeared. Rather, the blond seemed unusually compliant, and London assumed he’d made the right decision in organizing the event.

“Seriously,” Eric protested, as though somehow recognizing London’s satisfaction, and he crinkled his nose as he walked into the foyer to see streamers hanging from the ceiling. “Whose house is this, anyway?”

“Wyatt’s,” London answered absently. He seemed focused entirely on finding a way to push the other man toward the main room, but that task had suddenly become a whole lot harder than it should have been.

Upon hearing that it was Wyatt’s house, Eric’s eyes brightened mischievously and he instantly broke away to inspect the nearest available room. It didn’t look much like a rock star’s house to him – there was a painting on the wall and family photos on a bookshelf, surrounded by the kind of literature Eric had been forced to read in high school. Nosily, Eric stooped to inspect the pictures and obstinately ignored London’s hands as the manager tried to pry him away.

“Please don’t be difficult,” London said in exasperation. “They’re waiting for you.”

“Oh, whatever,” Eric dismissed him, reaching forward to lift a picture frame to his eye level. There was Wyatt, and Avery, who still looked gargantuan, and a shorter brunet in between them. Something looked familiar about him, as though he’d seen him somewhere before. He looked kind of nerdy for someone who was related to a rock star.

And then suddenly he felt something akin to a lead ball sink into his stomach, and he realized that he _had_ seen the brunet before. “Hooooly shit,” he breathed.

“Huh?” Peering over his shoulder, London squinted and said, “That’s Wyatt with his brothers.”

“Oh, God,” Eric moaned in mounting horror. “That’s my sister’s fiancé.”

 _That_ sure caught London’s attention. “What? Let me see,” he demanded, seizing the photograph, and frowned at it gravely. “Avery or Morgan?”

“Morgan!”

London looked at him sympathetically. “I know it’s a bit strange, but it’s nothing to be upset about.”

“Easy for you to say,” he snapped. “You’re not dating the brother of your future _brother-in-law_.”

London made a strangled noise of surprise. “ _What_?”

“Er,” Eric said, flushing. “I mean. What? I didn’t say anything.”

The older man made a pained face and ran his hands through his hair. “When did this happen?”

Eric averted his eyes. “During the break.”

“I only gave you two weeks off!” London hissed, looking almost disbelieving.

With a deathglare, Eric kicked him in the shin and hissed, “Stop acting so upset! It’s not a big deal!”

Judging by the way London was tearing at his hair, it actually _was_ a pretty big deal. It took a lot of angry expressions and throttling gestures before he finally forced out, “You just ruined my schedules!”

And okay, that was probably the _last_ thing Eric had expected to hear. He paused mid-kick to stare, blinking slowly before he echoed, “Your schedules?”

London’s face was growing increasingly red as he dug through his pocket and pulled out a datebook and a small, attached pen. Giving Eric a dirty look, he began flipping through the pages and heatedly slashing out entire days. “You can’t really expect me to room you together now, can you?”

“ _What_?” Eric yelled in outrage. “Who are you, my dad? You can’t do that!”

“I’m your manager,” London told him with a prim expression.

“Which has _nothing_ to do with this,” he seethed.

Closing his datebook with a tidy little _snap_ , London stuffed it back into his pocket and gave Eric a severe look. “It has everything to do with it. I don’t want this band going down like the Beatles.”

Eric didn’t even know what to say to that. He was still reeling from the discovery that his sister was engaged to Wyatt’s brother, and the discord from that particular finding was too strong for him to waste energy on something as trivial as arguing with London. After one last, withering glower, Eric flipped him off and stormed off in a random direction.

Apparently, they hadn’t been expecting Eric to stomp into the party looking like he wanted to kill baby animals, and everyone’s chorused greeting of birthday wishes fell flat when Eric just scowled at them. He could tell the next step would be to ask him what was wrong, so he immediately sought out Wyatt, grabbed him by the sleeve, and hauled him off to the side.

“Our siblings are getting married,” he blurted without preamble.

Wyatt promptly spilled his drink on himself. “Uh, what?”

Momentarily distracted by the memory of a drugged up Wyatt repeatedly spilling water on himself, Eric suppressed an inappropriate smirk and elaborated, “Morgan is marrying Eleanor.”

As the news sunk in, Wyatt’s expression fell. “Oh, crap,” he said. “That’s going to be awkward.”

“Probably,” Eric agreed, feeling the beginnings of panic stirring in his stomach. He felt kind of sick. Just as he was about to comment on exactly _how_ uncomfortable the upcoming wedding was going to be, something even worse happened: he felt a hand on his shoulder, and a voice in his ear.

“Andrew says you’re gay,” Eleanor greeted him brightly, slapping him on the back.

Jerking so hard he knocked Wyatt’s cup out of his hand, Eric whirled around to stare in terror at his sister. “Fucking hell,” he swore.

Eleanor smirked at him. “Way to stick it to the parentals.”

“Uh, yeah,” Eric agreed absently, looking around himself in the sudden realization that there were a _lot_ of people here, including Andrew and the roadies. “Why the fuck are you here?”

His sister pointed to London, who was talking to Hunter and a scrawny black-haired man across the room. “Your manager brought me here.”

“No, I mean, in _America_ ,” he clarified with a glare, although London’s ridiculous penchant for fucking with Eric’s life sure did clear things up about how everyone else got here.

“The wedding,” she said, giving him an ‘Are you _retarded_?’ look.

“Oh,” he said, feeling a powerful tide of quickly rising panic. He absolutely did _not_ want to talk about that right now. “Andrew wasn’t supposed to tell you about that,” he blurted as a subject change. “The gay thing, I mean.”

“Um,” Wyatt exchanged an uncomfortable glance with him and motioned to his spilled drink, “I’m gonna go get something to clean this up.”

“Right,” Eric mumbled, cringing when he felt Eleanor leaning against his shoulder. She was grinning.

“So that’s your boyfriend?” she asked as Wyatt began walking away.

“No,” he lied and hoped to christ she couldn’t see the faint family resemblance to Morgan. “He’s just some guy. That I know.”

“He looks like the lead singer from your band,” she commented. “You know, the one you’re dating?”

 _Fuck you, Andrew_ , he thought, glaring at the back of his brother’s head. How much had he told her, anyway? He hoped his twin was telepathic, and that he could sense his murderous intent from across the room. “Andrew is a bastard,” he said finally.

“Uh huh,” she said, ruffling his hair until it covered his eyes. “You keep saying that, and I’m gonna go eat some free food.”

“Whatever,” he grumbled and watched her push through the roadies to the food-laden counter, hoping she didn’t bump into Wyatt along the way. She didn’t, but someone she _did_ bump into made Eric brighten and immediately venture into the crowd with excitement.

“Peter!” he said, grabbing the smaller man’s bracelet-adorned wrist, and dragged him into the kind of bone-crushing hugs Andrew liked to give. (Eric refused to say hi to his twin now that he knew Andrew was responsible for spilling the proverbial gay beans.)

“Erm,” said Peter, who had not been expecting a tackle-hug in the middle of the room, and swayed unsteadily on his feet. He blinked at Eric with black-lined eyes before he realized who it was, and he smiled meekly as he high-fived his best friend eagerly in an excited greeting. “I thought you were still sulking in the corner.”

Eric made a face at the reminder that he was involved in a freaky, kind of almost incestual family situation. “I’ll explain later,” he muttered, looking around for an excuse to change the subject. His eyes fell on the black-haired man London had been speaking to, and he squinted curiously when he realized he didn’t recognize him. “Who the fuck is that?”

“Some guy named Kapnias,” Peter explained, then grinned sheepishly at Eric’s ‘how the fuck do _you_ know?’ look. “I talked to him earlier. Hunter brought him. He’s got a really cool lip piercing.”

“Oh.” Eric craned his neck to get a better look at him, but alas, he could see no lip rings. He would just have to take Peter’s word for it.

“Mm,” agreed the half-Chinese man, and then his grin widened. “Sooo,” he said, rocking back and forth on his heels.

 _Oh shit_ , Eric thought, because he totally recognized that tone. Usually, it meant that Peter was either prying, meddling, or plotting, and Eric didn’t want to be involved in _any_ of those things. “What?” he ventured warily.

“How’s Wyatt?” the other man asked innocently.

“I wouldn’t know. He’s right over there.” Eric expertly dodged the question, pointing out the redhead where he was mopping up the earlier spill. “Go ask him yourself.”

“I think I’d rather ask you,” said Peter with a sly look.

“What?”

Peter reached up to flick him on the forehead. “A little bird told me that you guys started dating. What’s the matter with you? I haven’t even seen you since I got back in town, and you go off and start some hot torrid love affair with a rock star?”

“Uh,” he mumbled, flushing lightly. “Sorry. I didn’t even know you were here.”

“I have a six week break.”

“Six weeks?” Eric asked, furrowing his eyebrows. “What the crap? That’s longer than _I_ get.”

Laughing, Peter swiped at his feathery black bangs and said, “I guess you should have gone to Oxford, huh?”

“Nah,” he replied, absently noticing from the corner of his eye as Wyatt finished cleaning the spill, and then choked a little as he remembered: Eleanor. Holy crap. “Pete,” he said, urgently, and grabbed the smaller man by his shoulders. “You’re not going to believe what I just found out.”

“Um?” Looking surprised, Peter glanced down at Eric’s hands, then back up to his blue eyes and hesitantly asked, “What is it?”

“ _Eleanor_ ,” he whispered furiously, and then ducked as he saw his sister’s head snap around across the room. What the hell, that woman could hear like a bat! “Eleanor,” he continued in a considerably lower voice, “is marrying Morgan.”

Peter blinked. “I guess I’ll have to congratulate her later.”

With a wince, Eric hissed, “No!” and discreetly pulled Peter further away from the rest of the mingling group. “Morgan, as in Wyatt’s _brother_.”

“Ohhh,” said the other man, recognition dawning in his eyes. “I thought that name was familiar.”

Eric stared for a moment. “Why aren’t you freaking out?”

“Well,” Peter murmured, lifting his shoulder in a shrug, “it’s not like _you’re_ going to be related. It will just make Christmas parties a lot more convenient. You guys can merge or something and make it easier on everyone.”

“You,” Eric jabbed him in the chest with his finger, “are _incredibly_ unhelpful.”

At that, the shorter man looked unfairly amused. “Sorry,” he said, and then nodded his head at something behind the blond man. “Andrew at six o’clock.”

“Six o’clock?” Eric echoed in confusion, but before Peter could roll his eyes and explain it to him, a hand clamped down on the pianist’s shoulder and a jovial voice spoke into his ear.

“Eric!” crowed his twin as he wrapped the other man in a crushing, almost suffocating hug. “Why didn’t you say hi to me?”

“Because I hate you,” muttered the blond, trying to duck out of the embrace with no success.

Andrew immediately let him go with a frown. “Why would you say something like that?”

“ _Because_ ,” he hissed, attempting to flatten his bangs into some semblance of style. His attempted hug escape had resulted in the complete annihilation of any order his hair had once maintained. “You told Eleanor I was gay.”

“You mean it was a secret?” asked Andrew with an incredibly confused look.

Eric’s jaw dropped open. “What do you _mean_ , was it a secret? Of course it was a secret! I didn’t even know until recently!”

“Well, you wear those pink polos all the time, and you’re really uptight about your hair,” he replied, motioning to the dark-haired man with his hand. “And you hang out with Peter all the time. We’ve all just assumed you were gay since you were like, sixteen.”

Head snapping to face Peter, Eric had expected a look of indignation, but instead he found one of amusement. He glared and turned back to his twin. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Well,” he said, shrugging. “We were right, weren’t we?”

“Oh, shut up,” Eric muttered, but he couldn’t stay mad for too long, because, seriously. He’d missed Andrew. “Thanks for making it all the way out here for this, by the way. It must been kinda sucky to travel all the way here when it’s your birthday, too.”

Andrew just grinned. “It’s not so bad. I had a party in Milwaukee, and Avery’s been sneaking me cake for the past half hour or so.”

“ _Avery_?” blurted Eric before he could stop himself. “Oh God, why is _Avery_ here?”

“Um,” Andrew said with a quizzical look. “Because he’s like my best friend now, and I invited him to come with me?”

A calmer Eric would have thought that made sense, but he was already sort of in freak-out mode, so he just made a strangled noise and conspicuously began looking around the room for Wyatt’s brother. Avery was like a giant, and he looked like he could probably snap Eric in half, and he did _not_ want to have to deal with that. No way – no _fucking_ way was he dealing with the redheaded goliath’s reaction if he decided he didn’t like Eric being in a gay relationship with his brother.

“Hey,” Peter softly broke into his panic attack. “What’s wrong?”

Eric obstinately ignored him, still glancing around the room, and latched onto his twin’s sleeve. “You didn’t _tell_ him, did you?” he whispered furiously.

“Well, yeah.” Frowning, Andrew pushed Eric’s hand away from his sleeve and said, “Will you quit being a freak about it? It’s not like he didn’t already know Wyatt was gay.”

Eric stared at him for a moment, and then abruptly relaxed as all the tension seeped from his bones, because oh, yeah. Wyatt had his sexuality listed on the band homepage, for chrissakes. Of course Avery knew about it.

“Still,” Eric muttered, jutting his chin out stubbornly. “You should have asked me before you told him.”

With a smile, Andrew clapped him on the back and said, “He already knew. From Wyatt.”

Absently, Eric thought he probably shouldn’t have been so pleased by that news, but no amount of internal swearing could displace the warmth spreading in his chest. He could at least outwardly appear indifferent, however, so that’s exactly what he did – he lifted his shoulder in a shrug and shifted his weight as he replied, “Then I guess that’s okay.”

Andrew, who could see straight through any façade his twin might throw up, grinned and jabbed him in the side. After letting out a squawk of indignation, Eric punched him in the shoulder, and they spent a while hitting each other back and forth like children while Peter watched and laughed, and Eric secretly looked at Wyatt from the corner of his eye and smiled.


	17. Chapter 17

Overall, the party was like being on tour again, except with a lot more people. Okay, and a lot more sexual tension, too. Eric wasn’t exactly trying to _hide_ the whole kinda-sorta-dating thing with Wyatt, but he wasn’t advertising it, either. As far as he was concerned, if somebody knew, that was cool, but if they didn’t know? That was probably better. London seemed to share the sentiment, because he said as much when he caught Eric by the arm and pulled him away from an epic battle of Prime, Not Prime between Simon and Mitch.

“Listen,” London began, gray eyes surveying their surroundings for any sign of Wyatt, or Peter, or anyone who would interrupt the conversation. “While I’m happy for you and Wyatt, you need to take the band into consideration.”

“Uh,” said Eric, staring distastefully at London’s hand on his arm. London frowned and quickly removed it, but kept his body angled to prevent the blond from slipping away.

“This isn’t something you can go posting on the forums,” London continued with a serious, almost severe expression. At Eric’s angry look, he held up his hand and frowned. “It’s not even that I have anything against you, or your lifestyle—” here, Eric grimaced, because he hated the word _lifestyle_ in reference to his newfound gayness “—but if the general public discovered you and Wyatt were both unavailable, it would ruin part of our fanbase.”

“Oh, yeah?” Eric shot back, bristling. “What about the crazy fangirls who write about us having gay sex?”

“They can still do that,” London said carefully. “Those fans are going to stay regardless of your relationship. But the ones who _don’t_ support it will leave.”

Lacking a decent response to that, the blond just folded his arms and glared.

London pursed his lips and looked sympathetic. “I hope you understand.”

“I understand that you’re a _prick_ ,” Eric replied, but he didn’t argue the point any further. Instead, he just pushed him aside with considerably more force than was necessary and gravitated back to Peter’s side to sulk. If he were completely honest with himself, he was mildly upset by the fact that Wyatt hadn’t exactly been around since Eleanor had accosted him. Frankly, he did not know what the _hell_ the other man’s problem was, because Eric had tried to get his attention on at least three separate occasions. He would have tried for a fourth or fifth time, but Eric Forster was _not_ desperate enough for Wyatt’s attention to do that.

And okay, maybe he was a little bitter about being snubbed, accidentally or not. It was even possible that Eric had purposely averted his eyes and turned his back on Wyatt more than once just to be a bitch. And yeah, he might have even rested his hand on Peter’s elbow a few seconds too long and cocked his hip enticingly to the side to gauge Wyatt’s reaction, which had been appropriately (yet subtly) irritated – jealous, even – and that had made Eric feel a whole lot better.

At least until the end of the party, anyway, when it had whittled down to just a small group of six or so, including Wyatt and Eric. It was at that point that Eric noticed Wyatt was actually _avoiding_ him, wearing an annoyed expression the entire time as he went around the house shoving plastic cups and plates into a trash bag. Of course, the angry looks could have been purely because he was on trash duty, but something about the way his eyes narrowed whenever he glanced in Eric’s direction… Well. Eric assumed he was pissed.

 _Okay, so maybe I took that a little too far_ , Eric thought to himself, but he figured it wouldn’t be too hard to fix. After all, Eric was _awesome_ , and there was no way Wyatt could resist his boyish charms. Or something.

“Hey,” he said as he subtly brushed up against the other man, who was scrubbing at an assortment of dishes in the sink with furrowed eyebrows and a frown.

“What?” Wyatt asked without even bothering to look up.

Deciding on the direct approach, Eric leaned sideways against the counter to peer at Wyatt’s face and asked, “Why are you being so pissy?”

“I don’t think it’s any of your business,” he said loftily as he rinsed off two forks and a spoon.

“Uh, no, it’s totally my business,” Eric argued, poking him in the side.

Wyatt merely frowned, mouth slanted in a pale, angry line, and opened the dishwasher to put the silverware inside. “And why is that, exactly?”

“Because,” Eric started, and then flushed when he realized he’d been about to say ‘I’m your boyfriend.’ He didn’t know what they were, exactly, so he settled on motioning vaguely at the air between them. “You know.”

Raising his eyebrows, Wyatt finally met his gaze and asked, “What, because I’m just some guy you know?”

Eric’s eyes widened a little at that. Was that _seriously_ why Wyatt was upset? Before he could stop himself, he blurted, “Oh my God, you’re such a _girl_ ,” and then immediately gave himself a mental kick in the head. Insulting him probably wasn’t the best strategy to apologize.

Predictably, Wyatt rose to the bait. “I am _not_ ,” he snapped, completely abandoning the dishes, and wiped his dripping hands on his jeans. “I just don’t know why you had to lie to your sister about it. I mean, _Avery_ knows.”

Eric looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Well,” he began, shifting his weight anxiously from foot to foot. “I didn’t want her to look at you and see the family resemblance to Morgan.”

“I don’t even look like Morgan,” Wyatt said with a frown. His hazel eyes were narrowed, and they burned into Eric accusingly, which made the blond feel increasingly more awkward. “Besides, aren’t they going to find out anyway?”

“What?” Eric asked, blinking.

“At the wedding,” Wyatt elaborated, and he was squinting enough to create a crease between his eyebrows. It made Eric feel guilty, and he really wished Wyatt would stop glaring like that, because it was kind of scary.

However, he didn’t feel guilty for very long, because a second later he realized the implications of Wyatt’s words. He didn’t know when the wedding was scheduled, but he assumed it wasn’t any time soon, which meant Wyatt was anticipating their relationship lasting until then. And that meant he was in this long term.

I guess so,” Eric said, feeling foolish and sentimental as a smile overtook his lips. He didn’t realize he was grinning until it was far too late, so he couldn’t even raise his hand to hide it. Worst of all, he was still blushing, and he was certain he looked as ridiculous as he felt. “Sorry. I didn’t think you’d freak out like that.”

“I didn’t freak out,” protested the singer, but his sheepish look plainly said he knew _exactly_ how much he’d freaked out. Wyatt poked Eric in the side, as though to distract from his shamefaced expression, and changed the subject. “Anyway. Are you going to stick around or are you leaving soon?”

 _Oh shit_ , Eric thought. _Does he mean like a date? Is stick around code for make out?_

Regardless of the answers to his questions, not hanging out with Wyatt all night had basically sucked, so he didn’t have time for any more panicked internal inquiries before he answered, “Yeah, probably.”

“Um,” Wyatt said, giving him a bemused look. “That wasn’t a yes or no question.”

Mentally cursing his fair skin as the tips of his ears heated in what was doubtlessly spiraling into a full-body blush, Eric gave a nervous laugh and said, “Right, well. I meant I’d probably hang out here, if that’s okay.”

“Sure,” Wyatt replied, and he maybe even beamed a little. His eyes, at least, appeared livelier, and he thrust a serving plate into Eric’s hands with what closely resembled either sadism or glee. “You can help clean dishes.”

“Actually, I think I lied – I have to go now,” Eric said, although he nudged Wyatt aside with his hip to make room at the sink. Of course, any contact with Wyatt, however brief, always raised the same reaction with Eric, and his breath hitched inaudibly. After waiting for the stomach butterflies to recede, he offered a nervous smile and held the platter beneath the flow of water to rinse it off.

Realistically, Eric probably should have been slightly more concerned by the prospect of spending the rest of his evening with Wyatt. Because, seriously, if just standing next to him made it hard to breathe, how was he going to react to purposeful touches? At this point, hyperventilation was a major possibility. Yet he couldn’t quite bring himself to worry, because in all honesty, spending time with Wyatt sounded pretty awesome.

Placing the now-rinsed plate in a random rack in the dishwasher, Eric bit his lip and sent Wyatt a sidelong glance. It was still strange to think of the other man in terms of romance, but he really, really hoped he got over it soon, because seriously, it was ridiculous. The more Eric looked at him, the more Eric realized that he was adorable, if men could simultaneously be considered hot and adorable. And what really kicked ass? Was that Eric was actually _dating_ him.

“What’re you looking at?” Wyatt asked with his typical amused expression as he bumped the other man with his shoe.

“Nothing,” he lied, and ducked his head to hide a smile. After all, he had a reputation to keep, and there were still a few people in the next room. Maybe after he finished the dishes with Wyatt (which was so domestic he could have killed himself), he would come clean with Eleanor about dating Wyatt. As far as Eric was concerned, London could shove it, because he really, really liked Wyatt, and he didn’t mind people knowing that.

 

* * *

 

Hanging out with Wyatt had been a lot more fun in theory than in practice. Sure, it was nice to basically sit on top of him on the couch, which had taken a whole lot of discreet scooting, but now that they were past all the typical hurdles (first shoulder-touching, then arm-touching, then hand-holding), it was mostly kind of…awkward. It hadn’t been _that_ long since Eric was in this sort of position, and usually he was a confident, cocky bastard , but something about Wyatt made him feel like a total dumbass. Okay, maybe not a _dumbass_ , but definitely a fidgety, nervous mess with sweaty palms, and there was no way in hell that was anywhere near attractive.

Wyatt, however, was either crazy or high, because he didn’t seem to mind. He kept shooting him private smiles that made Eric feel all glowy inside and pretended like he didn’t notice when Eric kept compulsively wiping his hands on his thighs. Beyond not minding, Wyatt was maybe even a freak who kind of liked it, because he had his arm around the blond and the other hand on Eric’s wrist, and what he could make out of Wyatt’s expression in the flickering light of the television looked content.

Eric hadn’t been this self-conscious since his first date, and that had been something like five years ago. What was making this whole ordeal so foreign and uncertain, he supposed, was the fact that Wyatt was a guy. Where Eric was used to soft curves and pliant lips, Wyatt was… Well. Male.

He had stubble and callous-rough fingers, and he was stronger and taller than Eric, and that was just weird. Eric wanted to lean over and kiss him, but Wyatt’s hand looked absolutely gigantic on top of Eric’s skinny wrist, and he felt…

“Holy shit,” he said aloud.

He felt like a girl.

“Huh?” Wyatt asked, stirring at his side. He squinted at Eric in concern. “What’s wrong?”

Eric was pretty sure that ‘you make me feel like I have a vagina so I can’t put any moves on you’ probably wasn’t a good response. Instead, he bit his lip and shook his head, sneaking a glance at the clock. He had to mentally will himself not to freak out, because it was almost midnight and Wyatt hadn’t asked him to leave yet. “Um, nothing,” he eventually answered Wyatt’s question, although he was privately wondering whether he was supposed to stay or get the fuck out.

Wyatt gave him an odd look like he knew he was lying (which he probably did) and tightened his arm around the blond’s shoulder. “Okay,” he said disbelievingly, and subtly curled his fingers just underneath the hem of Eric’s sleeve.

Repressing a shiver (because that would just be _way_ too girly), Eric scooted closer and took a deep breath. This was it. He was a man, goddammit, and men made the first moves – granted, Wyatt was _also_ a man, but he was obviously a fucking pussy, so it was up to Eric to take the plunge. That, and Eric was totally getting impatient, especially with the way Wyatt’s fingertips were delicately stroking his bicep.

“Fuck this,” he finally declared, frowning and grabbing Wyatt by the collar of his T-shirt. This was a lot scarier now that he was doing it, but he was going to die of embarrassment if he backed out now, so he just… did it.

It was probably more violent than it should have been, as far as first kisses went. He was too focused on getting this the hell over with to even think about tact or tenderness, and they accidentally bumped noses before Eric actually kissed him. And by then he was too overwhelmed by the realization that he was finally, _finally_ kissing Wyatt to really care about being careful, or taking it slow, or anything beyond Wyatt’s warm, soft mouth beneath his.

And okay, so maybe the stubble was a little weird, and it was totally chafing his chin, but he could worry about that later. For now, he concentrated on brushing his thumb along Wyatt’s cheekbone and carding his other hand through his hair. Wyatt really needed a haircut, Eric thought, but then Wyatt started kissing back a lot harder, and Eric didn’t think much about anything after that. Not unless it involved the way Wyatt’s fingers had crept up the back of his shirt and started tracing his spine.

Eric eventually sat back with a feeling of accomplishment, preening his figurative feathers as he wiped the spit from his mouth with the back of his hand. Stubble aside, that had still been absolutely nothing like kissing a girl. It had been at least a hundred times better, and Eric wanted to do it again, as soon as possible.

“Um,” Wyatt said once he seemed to regain his composure.

The tips of Eric’s ears suddenly went red with embarrassment as he realized he’d essentially mouth-raped him without warning, and he snapped, “What?”

Wyatt just shook his head, blinking. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Well,” Eric replied, puffing out his cheeks and crossing his arms, suddenly unsure of himself. Wyatt wasn’t supposed to be capable of speech at this point. He was _supposed_ to be kissing him again, the stupid bastard. “What _were_ you expecting?”

Wyatt shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. “Proper warning?”

Ah. Right. Rolling his eyes, Eric said, “Okay, here’s your warning,” and then reached for him again.

 

* * *

 

At some point, Eric had gotten used to sleeping in wrist splints. The force of a hard brace against his palm and wrist, pressure against his veins, had been with him for so long that he was somehow unable to sleep without it. He hadn’t exactly been planning on staying the night, but after like an hour of making out, it had gotten pretty late. So here he was, painfully awake at three in the morning, mere inches away from Wyatt.

Wyatt, of course, was sleeping. He was on his side, facing Eric, and he actually looked kind of ridiculous. His mouth was slightly open and his face was lax, and Eric imagined it was probably what he would have looked like if he’d been drugged. On anyone else, it would have looked disturbing, but Eric had grown fond enough of Wyatt’s face that it just looked kind of cute. Except Eric Forster did not use words like cute.

Frowning, Eric flopped onto his back and sighed gustily, half-hoping he’d wake the man sleeping next to him. It had no effect, however; Wyatt appeared to be a heavy sleeper. Eric nearly kicked his feet in frustration. He was fucking bored.

Around the time he started contemplating ‘accidentally’ poking the singer in the face until he woke up, Eric decided it was probably time to go do something productive. Like check his text messages and his voicemail. Trying one last time to wake Wyatt by shaking the bed as he got up – which was, of course, quite unsuccessful – Eric scowled and made his way into the living room to dig his phone out of the couch cushions.

Upon flipping it open, he discovered no text messages (disappointing) and a voicemail from London (intriguing). Putting it on speaker phone just in case that would wake Wyatt, Eric sat on the couch and listened.

“Hello, Eric,” it began diplomatically, making Eric roll his eyes. “This is London. I recently became aware that nearly every band member has an upcoming engagement – the wedding, in your case – so I have decided to extend your break for another month.” A pause. “And happy twentieth birthday, by the way.”

Eric blinked as the message ended and he was prompted to delete, save, or reply to it, and he snapped his phone shut without doing any of the three. Instead, he set his phone on the coffee table and bit his lip, wondering if it was a good enough excuse to finally wake Wyatt the fuck up so he could stop being bored.

Probably not, he eventually decided, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him. When he came back into the bedroom, Wyatt was still in the same position, and Eric practically leapt back into his spot in an attempt to jolt him awake. All it resulted in, however, was Wyatt making a sleepy noise and rolling over to sling an arm around Eric’s midsection.

That… was not exactly what Eric had been expecting. He froze, his heartbeat suddenly loud in his own ears, and he swallowed roughly. And then he realized he was acting like a complete girl again, so he grunted and threw his arm on top of Wyatt’s, letting his fingertips skim the jut of his hipbone.

The feeling of Wyatt’s skin beneath his hand wasn’t _quite_ like a wrist brace, but apparently it was good enough, because within moments Eric had fallen asleep, completely entangled with the man beside him.

 

* * *

 

Eric sort of hated weddings.

Well, no. That was an understatement. Eric _really_ hated weddings, with a loathing he had previously thought impossible, of which he only became aware when he actually had to be _in_ one. Specifically, in a tux, linking arms with some ugly girl to escort her down the aisle, and then standing next to _Wyatt_ , of all people, for the better part of an hour. Standing close enough to smell Wyatt’s aftershave for that long was pushing his patience a little too far.

To be fair, the girl he escorted wasn’t actually ugly at all, and he was also standing next to Andrew and Avery, but still. Eleanor, for all her crazy, outlandish ideas, could have at least done something more atypical in the wedding than carrying a cactus in place of a bouquet. Cacti, she had insisted, lasted forever, whereas normal flowers wilted. Actually, now that he thought about it, Eric wasn’t sure if that had been Eleanor or Morgan’s idea.

Either way, the wedding sucked, short and simple, unlike the ceremony itself, not to mention the hideous amount of pictures taken afterward. Eric had never been so happy to go back to his parents’ house before in his _life_ , even if it was just for the reception. The Forster abode was well-equipped for events and parties, and Astair had absolutely _insisted_ on hosting it.

“That,” Eric said sullenly as he sat in his chair after the toasts and obligatory dances were over, “was ridiculous.”

“Tell me about it,” Eleanor replied, sitting sprawled in her seat and looking bored.

Slowly, Eric turned to her with a rising sense of anger, because what the fuck? She’d just put him through the one of the most boring ceremonies in the history of holy matrimony, and she’d thought it was ridiculous? Gritting his teeth, he leaned over and hissed, “Then why did you even get married?”

“Oh, you know,” Eleanor murmured, absently looking around at the array of white and pink flowers on the trellis behind them. It was a nice day, so the reception was being held outside. “Joint tax returns, insurance claims, hospital visits.”

Eric let his forehead drop to the table with a thump and groaned, “Are you _kidding_? Why couldn’t you have just gotten a ceremony at the courthouse or something?”

“Morgan likes flowers,” she explained off-handedly, and then squinted across the room. “Where is he, anyway?”

Ignoring the sudden suspicion that perhaps _every_ Edwards child was gay (because Avery spent entirely too much time with Andrew, and what the fuck kind of a guy liked _flowers_?), Eric cast a glance around them and frowned. “I don’t know.”

“Probably eating,” she decided, abruptly scooting out of her chair. “I’m done with this traditional crap now. Wanna come hide inside with me?”

“I guess,” replied the blond with an indifferent shrug. Truth be told, he was fucking _dying_ for an excuse to escape, but he didn’t want Eleanor to think she was doing him any favors, so he kept his mouth shut. They skulked around the edges of the reception as discreetly as possible, which actually wasn’t very discreetly, given Eleanor’s poofy white dress and all, but they made it inside somehow without being spotted. At the last moment, Eric popped his head back outside and squinted until he found Wyatt.

 _I’ll be inside_ , he mouthed, and pointed to indicate that Wyatt could join them if he wanted. Wyatt, however, was talking to Morgan and Avery, so he just waved and flashed a megawatt grin before returning to his conversation.

“Your loss,” Eric mumbled, even though the redhead was far out of hearing range, and stepped into the house. His footsteps seemed louder than usual, and they echoed stridently as he wandered around the first floor to track his sister. His parents’ house was actually pretty creeptastic when it was empty like this, with everyone outside in the garden, and he wanted to find Eleanor as quickly as possible.

He eventually discovered her in the library (his parents were both crazy and rich enough to have a library of epic _Beauty and the Beast_ proportions), kneeling in front of a shelf stocked with photo albums. Head tilted curiously, he approached her with a inquisitive, “What’re you looking at?” before he saw it: a picture of four yellow-haired children decked out in back-to-school gear, the youngest two wearing matching sweaters, the middle one wearing a swishy white skirt, and the oldest…

“Never mind,” he said quickly, nearly bumping into the doorframe in his haste to leave.

His sister’s voice halted him almost immediately. “Eric,” she called, and he could hear the sound of the album being slammed as she got to her feet.

“What?” he asked, warily turning around. Eleanor was frowning, eyebrows bent sharply in a scowl, and her mouth was small and pink and angry.

“You can’t just pretend he never existed,” she said.

Ignoring the cold, draining sensation in the pit of his stomach, Eric swallowed and looked away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied.

“Don’t be stupid.”

Eric jaw tightened. “I’m not being stupid,” he replied through gritted teeth. He felt like he should have said something else, but his heart was suddenly beating too fast, and he wanted to get the fuck out of this room as quickly as humanly possible.

“You _are_ being stupid.” Pursing her lips, Eleanor set the album aside on a shelf and stalked over to him. “Danny died like ten years ago. You should be able to look at a picture of him without running away.”

Eric choked a little. His chest felt tight and he suddenly thought he was going to be sick. He felt like he should have something to say in response, but he couldn’t move his mind past the words ‘Danny died,’ so he just kept staring.

Eleanor did not seem pleased with this. Glaring, she put her hands on her hips and said, “ _Well_?”

It was kind of funny how one word could have such a big effect. Almost instantly, his eyes were wet and his cheeks were hot, and his palms felt clammy as he groped for the door. Right now, he wanted to think about _anything_ except this, but Eleanor was forcing him to, and his head hurt with the strain of repressing his tumultuous thoughts.

Eleanor was still staring at him expectantly, so he eventually uttered a wavering, “Fuck you,” before he bolted out of the room and down the hallway.

 

* * *

 

Eric hadn’t moved in at least ten minutes.

In the sensible part of his brain, he knew that sulking in Andrew’s room wasn’t going to help anything. A better tactic probably would have been to find the open bar and get properly plastered to the point where he couldn’t remember his own name, let alone Danny’s. Although, considering the way he’d acted the last time he’d had alcohol at that karaoke bar, that might not have been the best idea. After thoroughly contemplating this train of thought, he felt perfectly justified sitting on Andy’s bed with his chin resting on his knees, staring at the wall with suspiciously watery eyes.

He absolutely refused to let himself yield to tears, not in his parents’ house on his sister’s wedding day, so he clasped both hands to his mouth, closed his eyes, and focused on breathing slowly through his nose. His shoulders were shaking, but he didn’t want to acknowledge that just yet, so he ignored it and tightened his fingers across his face. He was so caught up in pretending he wasn’t upset that he didn’t notice anyone had come inside until he heard Wyatt’s voice.

“Eric,” said Wyatt softly, and Eric jumped, quickly dropping his hands into fists at his sides as Wyatt continued, “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Eric replied gruffly, casting Wyatt a disgruntled look, which was unfortunately ruined by the distressed tilt of Eric’s eyebrows and tear-shined eyes. “Can you please leave me alone?”

“Nope,” said Wyatt, catching Eric’s hand gently between his fingers as Eric took a reckless, poorly-aimed swipe at him. Eric looked incredibly unhappy with that, but Wyatt just smiled as he dropped onto the bed and put his arms around him. Resting one hand on the curve of Eric’s spine, he swept his fingers up to run through his sunny hair, preventing any resistance by drawing him close against his chest.

“You’re an idiot,” Eric mumbled into his shirt, not meaning it, but desperately needing someone to lash out at.

Wyatt snorted in response, watching as Eric began to fiddle with the hem of his black tuxedo jacket. “What’s wrong?”

Eric just shook his head against his chest. “Nothing.”

Chuckling quietly, Wyatt murmured, “I should have expected that,” before he ran his hand up Eric’s back, skimming his fingers over his neck, and tilted his chin up by the pad of his index finger to kiss him. It was a lot better than the desperate, fumbling kisses they’d had before (which, despite the fact that quite some time had passed between London’s voicemail and the wedding, were still somewhat clumsy) , and Wyatt even licked his lower lip as he pulled away. He was smirking, looking supremely pleased with himself, but managed a sympathetic tone and asked, “Really, what’s bothering you?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” Eric repeated, irritated, and kissed harder and with teeth when his lips met Wyatt’s a second time. “Will you stop bringing it up?”

In response, Wyatt merely brushed one finger beneath Eric’s eyes, catching the brimming beginning of tears on his knuckles, and looked inexplicably sad. “No.”

“Dumbass,” Eric snorted, but it seemed almost fond, less desperately desiring of an outlet for the old, aching pain in his heart, and he allowed Wyatt to wrap his arms more securely around his shoulders.

The insult was familiar, something both Wyatt and Eric could latch onto to ground themselves, and suddenly everything became easier. Eric abruptly realized that he’d wanted this, someone to find him and comfort him, and he was glad it had been Wyatt. Leaning into him again, they kissed again, and Eric allowed his mind to narrow to the teeth scraping at his lower lip and the other man’s soft, sweet tongue sweeping at the inside of his cheek, his hands falling to settle on Wyatt’s hips. Wyatt smelled like aftershave and expensive cologne, incredibly masculine, and it made a wedge of heat palpitate in his gut.

“This is weird,” Eric blurted after a few more moments of kissing.

“What’s weird?” Wyatt asked with a frown.

“We’re on my brother’s bed,” he said, looking down at the blue and white patterned quilt. It smelled like Andrew, he noticed belatedly, and it was incredibly uncomfortable to make out with Wyatt while thinking about how his twin smelled.

Rolling his eyes, Wyatt tugged at Eric’s hair and replied, “Okay, fine, then let’s sit on the floor.”

“Okay,” Eric said softly, eyes wide with a mix of shyness and vulnerability, and he gripped Wyatt’s hips tightly.

With Wyatt’s fingers were grasping his wrists and pulling him to his feet, Eric felt shaky again. It was just like high school, sneaking off to make out in his room, but this was completely different. This was the real world, and Wyatt was strong and warm beside him, considerably more male than all his previous affairs, and Eric couldn’t help but stare at him as they settled down together on the plush cream carpet.

“What?” Wyatt asked, blinking.

‘Nothing,’ Eric started to say, but he knew by now that Wyatt wouldn’t take that for an answer, so he shrugged and grazed his knuckles along the length of Wyatt’s arm. The tuxedo jacket felt smooth beneath his hands. It was entirely beyond him how someone who had initially pissed him off so badly was now solely responsible for the curling warmth in his chest, but he appreciated it either way. He was lucky he’d found Wyatt, he thought. Or perhaps he was just lucky that he’d stopped being a jackass to Wyatt. Also, that Wyatt apparently had a thing for jackasses.

“You’re weird,” Wyatt said, but he was smiling as he reached for him, and Eric felt his insides turn hot and soft as Wyatt kissed him again. He still felt a little weird, but mostly in a good way, and his breath even hitched as Eric pushed off Eric’s jacket and began untucking his shirt.

Eric no longer cared whether this was for comfort or concern – he needed it, whatever the reason, and he grabbed Wyatt’s calloused fingers with a growing sense of urgency. The lazy glide of Wyatt’s tongue was eliciting some very embarrassing noises from his throat, but Wyatt just swallowed them eagerly, squeezing Eric’s fingers and sliding his other hand up the back of Eric’s shirt.

Mustering the concentration to break away from Wyatt’s mouth, Eric eventually pulled back and stared torpidly into his hazel eyes, licking his lips as he pulled at Wyatt’s black bowtie. “This looks ridiculous.”

“You’re wearing one, too,” Wyatt pointed out and reached up to return the favor. Eric’s fingers were shaking, and he’d only just barely gotten Wyatt’s bowtie untied by the time Wyatt had gotten Eric’s completely off.

“Shut up,” he warned as he noticed the gathering mirth in Wyatt’s face, and smacked his shoulder after he finished with the stupid bowtie before he began popping open the buttons of Wyatt’s tuxedo vest, the jacket already sagging down to his elbows.

“I didn’t say anything,” Wyatt murmured, a hot gust of air against his neck, and pulled away to shrug entirely out of the jacket and then slipped his hands back under Eric’s shirt, his rough fingertips skimming his ribcage. Eric shivered and brushed his lips against the warm curve of Wyatt’s ear.

“Eric,” Wyatt breathed in a way he’d never said his name before, and Eric hesitated a split second before he made the decision to tip backward onto the floor, pulling the other man on top of him.

Eric felt a fluttering spark of nerves in the pit of his stomach as Wyatt looked down at him and caught his half-lidded expression, his eyes undoubtedly backlit with emotion, dark blue like the bottom of the ocean. Biting his lip, he glanced at him through his eyelashes, his heartbeat thudding at the unexpected touch of Wyatt’s thumb skating along his cheekbone. He hadn’t even noticed Wyatt had moved his hand until it had already touched his face, and he was most definitely blushing as he finished with the last button of Wyatt’s vest and pushed it into the growing pile of clothing beside them.

It was mildly awkward to maneuver it down Wyatt’s arms, but they managed, and he looked indecently amused as Eric tugged at his white dress shirt until it came untucked. Wyatt had flattened his hand against Eric’s cheek, covering nearly half his face, and the blond closed his eyes, satisfied now that they were in equal states of undress.

Wyatt had shaved for the wedding, so his face was smooth as it grazed against Eric’s when they kissed again, almost unfamiliar now that he’d become so accustomed to the stubble. It was distracting enough that he didn’t register Wyatt’s other hand sliding past his ribcage and down his stomach, and he didn’t even notice it had moved until he felt the other man’s fingers faltered at his waist.

Frowning at the hesitation, he opened his eyes and inhaled sharply when he realized Wyatt’s face was a whole lot closer than he’d thought.

“Um,” Wyatt said, biting his lip with a vague look. It took Eric a moment to realize why he’d stopped, and when he did, he wasn’t really sure what to do. Flushing, he paused to catch his breath and will his rapidly beating heart not to burst, languidly curling his fingers against the nearest available inch of uncovered skin. And then he remembered to breathe, and let Wyatt unbutton his pants, and refused to focus on anything except for Wyatt for a good, long time.


	18. Chapter 18

It wasn’t until later that Eric realized he’d just gotten his first gay hand job in his parents’ house, and that was even weirder than making out on Andy’s old bed. It really didn’t help that he was talking to Astair while he realized it, and he couldn’t help but choke and feel a little sick as he suddenly excused himself from the conversation.

He seriously considered hiding behind Wyatt until he got over his new-found revulsion, but he quickly decided that was a bad choice. They were both in matching states of disarray, and was probably a good idea to keep away for now. Otherwise, the surrounding observers might put two and two together and realize exactly where they’d been and what they’d been doing. Although, judging by the half-surprised, half-amused look Andy had given him, he assumed it was a safe bet that some people already knew.

That significantly narrowed Eric’s group of safe people to talk to: looking at Eleanor made his stomach flip queasily, Andy made him embarrassed (because seriously, _Andy’s bed_ ), and going back to Astair was absolutely out of the question. That left him two possible options, since Avery was currently talking to Andrew: his father, or Morgan.

Morgan was the obvious choice.

Sucking up his pride, Eric skulked around the outskirts of the reception with as much dignity as he could muster while sneaking around like a guilty teenager. When it looked like one of Astair’s many business partners was about to strike up a conversation with him, he grandly ducked behind the trellis and waited for him to pass. He didn’t enjoy talking to his mother’s friends under normal circumstances, and considering the fact that he was still recovering from some serious afterglow, he had no shame in hiding from them.

He found Morgan at the buffet table, squinting at a strawberry over the rim of his almost unstylishly large spectacles. His hair was long and messy and no longer in its properly combed state from the ceremony, but it suited him better that way. He was like a scruffier, shorter brunet version of Wyatt. Except he was older, so maybe Wyatt was a taller, cleaner version of Morgan.

And apparently he’d been staring for too long, because now Morgan was squinting at _him_ , not the strawberry, and he was raising both his eyebrows.

“Er,” Eric said, scooting out from behind the chair he’d been using to shield himself from Astair’s watchful eye. “Hi,” he offered lamely.

Morgan kept staring at him. “Are you Andrew or Eric?”

“Eric,” he replied, blinking as Morgan offered his hand. He shook it slowly and watched as Morgan popped the strawberry into his mouth with his other hand. Suddenly, he realized that he really didn’t have much else to say, and he began to feel very stupid. “So, uh. You married my sister.”

Morgan gave him a decidedly odd look. “That’s what I just spent the past two hours doing, yes.”

 _Fuck_ , Eric thought, because he was growing increasingly aware that he was, in fact, a dumbass. What had he been thinking, going up to this guy without any intention of actually speaking to him about anything? He had to think of something. Fast. Something like—“So how did you guys meet in the middle of Africa?” he blurted.

“I have no idea,” Morgan admitted as he picked up another strawberry and shoved it into his mouth.

That was not exactly the response Eric had been expecting. Not that he’d really been expecting anything, since he’d only come up with the question .5 seconds before he asked it, but still. “Seriously?”

Swallowing, Morgan put on a thoughtful expression and eventually said, “I think we were taking pictures of the same plant.” After a short pause, he added, “I’m a botanist.”

“A botanist,” Eric repeated dully and privately began to wonder how the hell the Edwards family had produced a botanist, a rock star, and a jock.

“Yup,” Morgan murmured, saying nothing else as he slowly drifted down the buffet table and poked at some cheese cubes.

 _Eleanor somehow found the most boring man on earth_ , Eric thought in something akin to wonder, watching as Morgan bit into a piece of cheddar. _And then she fucking married him_.

Casting a glance over his shoulder at the blond, Morgan tilted his head curiously and asked, “So what do you do?”

Fuck. “I work with Wyatt,” he said vaguely, mentally adding, _But I am not a rock star, and I am certainly not dating him_.

Morgan totally knew, though. Up went his eyebrows, and he smiled a little. “Oh, so you’re his boyfriend.” He laughed. “For some reason I thought he was dating the other one. Andrew.”

“What?” he squawked. “Why?”

Morgan scratched the tip of his nose. “I dunno. He just seems kind of gay to me.”

Oh. Well, that wasn’t really anything new, since Eric had begun to question his twin’s debatable sexuality once the other man had basically attached himself to Avery’s hip. But on second thought, it would be fucking _weird_ if Andrew and Avery turned out to be gay for each other, because that was just too many Forster/Edwards couples to be normal. Maybe they’d all been together in a past life or something.

And now Eric was officially going insane, because had he seriously just thought that? Shaking his head to clear it, Eric put on a pained smile and said, “Yeah, no. I’m the gay one.”

Morgan gave him an unreadable look. “That’s good to know,” he murmured, and abruptly shoved a giant handful cheese cubes in his mouth and pointed importantly behind Eric.

 _That probably isn’t a good sign_ , Eric thought, turning around with a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, and saw Astair standing not five feet away. She didn’t appear to have heard anything, which was incredibly lucky, because wow, what had Eric been thinking? He’d just admitted to his gayness in the middle of a very crowded reception party, and that was just fucking stupid.

“I should, um. Probably go,” Eric said stupidly, feeling almost numbed by the fact that he’d just avoided a narrow scrape with getting disowned.

Morgan’s mouth was still full of cheese, so he could only nod and chew.

Waving, Eric mumbled, “It was nice talking to you,” and stumbled away to hide behind the trellis again, where he unexpectedly bumped into Wyatt.

They blinked at each other in surprise for a moment before Wyatt asked, “What’re you doing here?”

“Hiding,” Eric hissed, elbowing the redhead in the side to make him move over. The trellis only provided so much cover, and hell if he was getting caught doing something scandalous like creeping around with Wyatt. “Why are _you_ here?”

“Same,” Wyatt admitted. “Andrew kept glaring at me. He’s kinda scary.”

“Oh,” Eric said, flushing. He could probably guess why Andy had been sending him dirty looks. Actually, he was surprised Andy hadn’t dragged Wyatt aside and demanded to know his intentions towards Eric. “That’s weird,” he lied.

“Yeah.” And then he laughed. “You know, this kind of sucks. We shouldn’t have to spend this whole wedding reception hiding.”

Eric gave him a look. “What, were you expecting it to be fun?”

With a shrug, Wyatt absently picked at a twining vine of pink morning glories and murmured, “Well, no, but I mean.” He gestured vaguely at the air between them. “All we really do is go to these parties and avoid each other because London said so, and it sucks.”

Eric wasn’t really sure what he meant by ‘these parties,’ because so far it had only been his birthday and the wedding, but he wholeheartedly agreed that London’s stupid rule sucked. They’d been in public exactly once together since they’d started dating, and that had been when Eric had locked himself out of his car two weeks ago.

“We should go on a date,” he blurted, then immediately blushed and followed up with, “Fuck what London thinks.”

“Erm,” said Wyatt, looking taken aback by the fact that Eric had proposed the idea so readily. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, we should go do something in public instead of hiding in our houses all the time,” he huffed.

“You have an apartment, not a house,” the taller man corrected absently, blinking at him. “And London has that rule for a reason, you know. He’s just trying to protect us.”

“Bullshit,” he said bluntly. “If you don’t want to go on a date with me, that’s fine, but don’t try to tell me you think London’s being fair.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to go out with you,” Wyatt said uncomfortably, and Eric grinned and cut him off.

“Then you will?” he asked hastily.

“Yeah,” Wyatt reluctantly agreed. “I’ll pick you up sometime tomorrow, okay?”

“’kay,” Eric said, and then he plucked a flower from the trellis and threw it in Wyatt’s face for the hell of it.

 

* * *

 

“I feel stupid,” Eric complained the next day, fiddling with his sunglasses for the fifth time in as many minutes. He was decked out in pants he never would have worn otherwise, and a coat that felt almost stifling despite being quite thin. It was now the middle of May, and any coat of _any_ kind was vastly weather-inappropriate in Eric’s opinion, especially because they were in fucking _California_. In the spirit of discretion, Wyatt had suggested flipping the collar up, and Eric had coolly punched him in the chest. The idea of going out in disguises was humiliating enough already, and he was especially bitter because Wyatt wore glasses and therefore did not have to submit to the shame of big plastic sunglasses.

Sighing, Wyatt elbowed him in the side and asked, “Would you rather be accosted by every single person who recognizes you?”

“I would _rather_ ,” he began, tugging at his stupid jacket, “not feel like a fifty year old man trying to sneak into a porno shop. We look _ridiculous_.”

Wyatt made a muffled noise of exasperation and rubbed his face with one hand. “What the hell are you talking about, Eric?”

“I am _talking_ about this – this _thing_ ,” he sputtered and waved his hands around to indicate his outfit, which actually wasn’t that bad; Eric merely had a flair for the dramatic, which was kind of obvious by now.

“You’re only making it worse,” murmured the taller man as Eric’s continued bitching and flailing began to draw attention from passing pedestrians. They were walking down a busy sidewalk, and Eric didn’t quite understand the value of tact, which was rather important in any rock star’s life.

“Worse how?” Eric muttered. He’d stopped thrashing his jacket around, at least, and when he looked at Wyatt, he appeared a lot more unruffled than he made himself out to be.

“If you don’t calm down, people are going to notice you even more,” he said, inconspicuously grabbing the back of Eric’s T-shirt and pulling him closer, “which is exactly the _opposite_ of what we want.”

“Whatever,” he mumbled, but he quickly complied by pushing his sunglasses further up on his nose and subtly slouching against Wyatt. The singer felt warm against his side, and he belatedly took Wyatt’s advice and flipped up his collar to hide his growing smile.

“Anyway,” Wyatt said eventually, carefully not commenting on the way Eric’s fingertips were brushing against his elbow, lest the blond grow skittish and move away, “where did you want to go?”

Eric crinkled his nose. “Why do I have to pick? You’re the one who asked me out.”

Rolling his eyes, Wyatt flicked him in the forehead and explained, “You get to choose _because_ I asked you out, dumbass. I’m being nice.”

“Ow,” Eric said dully, rubbing the spot where Wyatt had hit him. “That’s what you call being nice, huh?”

“Yup,” Wyatt replied with a rebelliously unrepentant grin. Even though the sappy romantic crap was nice, Eric was rather relieved that Wyatt was still the same sarcastic bastard he’d always been. It had been the push and pull of banter that had originally sparked – well – that had sparked whatever it was between them.

“If hitting me in the forehead is nice, then I doubt your generosity actually extends to letting me decide, so _you_ ,” he jabbed him playfully in the stomach, “have to fucking pick.”

“Oof,” Wyatt said, which Eric took as a grudging consent.

And then Eric decided that he actually did want to choose, because he was suddenly very, very hungry, so he grabbed Wyatt by the hand (which generated warm sparks all throughout his arm) and hauled him toward the nearest restaurant, declaring, “Never mind, I want food.”

“But you just said I could pick,” the redhead protested, although he allowed himself to be pulled along, curling his fingers against Eric’s and running his thumb across his knuckles.

“Shut up,” Eric said, but he was smiling, and he took off his sunglasses with one hand to look at Wyatt without the shadowed filter. At that moment, with both of their faces completely uncovered and unrecognizable, Eric pushed up onto his tip-toes and kissed Wyatt lightly on the mouth, emboldened by the satisfying thought that he was allowed to do this now. He could kiss Wyatt whenever he wanted, and it was okay – welcomed, even, and that thought still surprised him whenever he was struck by it.

As nice as it had felt, though, it had also been pretty obvious, and they bumped into the plump figure of a teenage girl before Eric could replace his shades. All three of them stared at each other in shock for a moment before her face rapidly turned red and Eric seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation. Before she could get out a single word, he tightened his grip on Wyatt’s wrist and instinctively bolted around the corner. Or maybe dragged’ was a more accurate term, as Wyatt nearly tripped over a piece of uneven concrete as Eric kept tugging him along.

“This was entirely unnecessary,” Wyatt mumbled once they were a good two blocks away, ducking inside the first restaurant they saw.

“Are you kidding?” Eric turned around to gape at him. “You _have_ met fangirls before, right? The crazy psychotic ones who try to stalk us?”

“Yes, I have,” Wyatt said, finally removing himself from Eric’s grasp, “and she might not have been one of them. She _might_ have just been surprised by two men kissing, and you’ve drawn even _more_ attention to us by running away.”

Eric wasn’t really sure what to say to that. He puffed out his cheeks and jammed his hands into his pockets, suddenly feeling stupid. “Well, if they didn’t know who we were, then it doesn’t matter, does it? And if they did, then it was right to run away,” he reasoned, jutting his chin out stubbornly.

Wyatt’s jaw tightened as the hostess arrived and seated them, and he pursed his lips at Eric the entire time she passed out menus and asked them what they would like to drink. The second she left, he leaned across the table and hissed, “If they did recognize us, we could have explained ourselves, and lied and said we were European, or that – that it was a _friendly_ kiss or something, I don’t know.” He was glaring a little. “But by running away we’ve shown that we have something to hide, and hell if they’re going to let that go.”

Eric glared right back at him. “Well, maybe they _didn’t_ , okay? And I didn’t exactly see you trying to stop me.” Jerkily, he tore the napkin away from his silverware and shoved it onto his lap. “You don’t have to be such a pissy bitch, okay? What happens, happens, and I’ll take the heat from London if it comes down to it.”

“Fine,” Wyatt said, sighing loudly, and played restlessly with Eric’s spoon. “Sorry,” he offered eventually.

Eric shrugged in what he hoped came off as a show of indifference. “Whatever,” he mumbled.

Grimacing, Wyatt looked like he was going to continue, but the shrill tone of his cell phone cut him off, and they shared a look of mutual horror as they were struck by the same thought: _How the fuck did London already find out?!_

Wyatt cleared his throat nervously as he flipped the phone open. “Hello?”

“Who is it?” Eric hissed, but Wyatt waved him off. He looked excited.

“ _Really_?” he was saying into the receiver. “When?” And then he grinned. “What’s her name?”

Eric kind of wanted to stab him with his fork. “Who are you talking to?” he demanded.

“We’ll be right there,” Wyatt said cheerfully, then hit the end button and shut his phone. “Sophia had the baby.”

“Yippee,” Eric drawled in a sardonic tone. As much as he liked – er, _tolerated_ Cyrus at this point, his offspring didn’t particularly interest him. “Can we eat first?”

Shooting him a scandalized look, Wyatt pushed out of his seat and snapped, “You’re joking, right?” as he simultaneously began hauling Eric toward the exit.

“No,” Eric muttered unhappily, but allowed Wyatt to lead the way and hoped the hospital had a decent café.

 

* * *

 

Babies were gross, Eric decided. And ugly. It was entirely beyond him how Cyrus and Sophia, two reasonably good-looking people, had managed to produce such an ugly spawn. It looked like an alien, and Eric was quite honestly afraid of aliens, and he wanted out of the maternity ward – like, _now_.

“I'm leaving,” he whispered loudly to Wyatt, yanking at the bottom of his shirt to catch his attention. “I'll meet you at the car.”

Frowning, Wyatt caught Eric’s fingers before the blond could flee from the room, clasping them tightly within his own. “What? Why?”

“I don’t like babies,” he hissed, unsuccessfully trying to wrench his hand away. Unfortunately, he’d forgotten to whisper that part, and Sophia’s head snapped up from across the room, and Eric barely had time to frantically think, _Oh, crap_ , before Sophia’s mouth slanted into an expression that frighteningly resembled a snarl.

“I just spent nine months carrying this girl and endured the most hellacious pain I’ve ever felt in my life pushing her out, and you won’t even _hold_ her?” she growled.

“Um,” Eric said, paling. Sophia was the scariest girl he’d ever met in his life – scarier than his mother that time when he’d spilled cranberry juice on one of their oriental rugs, and that had been downright piss-worthy.

Wyatt nudged him forward with his elbow. “Come on,” he urged. “What’re you afraid of?”

“Dropping her,” he confessed bluntly, eyeing the baby, who was named Isabelle, with something close to trepidation. Not only was she ugly, but she was tiny and fragile, and Eric didn’t want to be responsible for her future mental retardation after he dropped her on her freakish alien head.

“You won’t drop her,” Sophia snapped. “Now get over here.” Amazingly, Isabelle didn’t seem to mind her mother’s caustic tone; she just curled placidly in Sophia’s arms and uttered a low whimper.

“Oh God,” Eric said as he was pushed towards Sophia’s side. Desperately, he looked to Cyrus for help, but the older man just beamed at him encouragingly. _Traitor_ , Eric thought bitterly, and hesitantly held out his arms to accept the baby from Sophia.

“Stop being so scared,” she chided, and passed Isabelle to Eric, who sucked in an anxious breath as he stared at the tiny girl suddenly in his arms.

“I’m not scared,” he lied, remaining dead still, his shoulders awkwardly hunched as he swallowed roughly. He was going to drop her any second, he just knew it, and then Sophia was going to gut him with a kitchen knife, and his life was going to be over before he even got to have real sex with Wyatt, because hand jobs didn’t count.

“See, you’re fine!” Cyrus beamed with a proud look that was probably intended for his daughter, and not Eric’s accomplishment in holding her.

“Yeah,” he said, looking at Isabelle in horror. One of her tiny fingers had latched onto one of his own, and it looked small and weak and delicate, and he passed her onto Wyatt as quickly as possible. “I’m done now.”

Chuckling, Wyatt took Isabelle with an ease that made Eric inherently jealous. It seemed as though he were the only one handling the situation ineptly, and he wondered exactly where the hell everyone else had learned how to deal with babies so well. Having kids was an adult thing, and Eric was only twenty-one, goddammit, and how was his boyfriend already able to cradle a day-old baby girl and coo at her with a straight face?

“She’s beautiful,” Wyatt said, and Eric made a face behind his back, because that had been a blatant lie. Isabelle was still mostly red, and her face was scrunched in an expression that looked distinctly uncomfortable, although she hadn’t wailed much beyond the tiny whines she’d made against Sophia’s chest.

“I know.” Grinning, Cyrus leaned against Sophia and snaked his arm around her shoulders, looking content. Sophia just jabbed him in the side and tried to hide her smile.

“Has James been here yet?” asked Wyatt after a moment of admiring Isabelle.

Cyrus shook his head. “He’s dropping by later. London said he’d come, too.”

Eric felt all the color rushing from his face. London was absolutely the last person he wanted to see right now, even if the manager had no clue what had transpired earlier that day. “We probably have to leave soon,” he lied with a meaningful glance in his boyfriend’s direction.

Thankfully, Wyatt seemed to get the message. He gave Cyrus and Sophia an appropriately regretful look and nodded. “We’ll visit again tomorrow,” he assured after catching a glimpse of Sophia’s grumpy face, which made Eric bite the inside of his cheek unhappily, but he wisely didn’t comment. If being forced to hold Isabelle twice saved him from incurring London’s wrath, he was perfectly okay with it.

“Congratulations again,” Wyatt murmured with a small laugh as he gently placed Isabelle in Cyrus’s waiting arms. “It’s going to be kind of weird thinking of you as a father.”

“I know.” With a sheepish look in his wife’s direction, the drummer confessed, “I’ve been freaking out about it all morning.”

“I almost punched him,” Sophia deadpanned as she pushed herself up higher in the bed. Cyrus appeared unconcerned, but if Sophia was in a bad mood, then Eric wanted to get the hell out of there before she decided to stab him in the neck with an epidural needle for whatever reason.

“We’ll see you later,” he said hastily and shoved Wyatt toward the door.

“Bye, guys,” Cyrus called with a little wave, and Sophia merely gave them a look that promised a painful death if they forgot to visit a second time. Anxiously, Eric stuck his finger through one of Wyatt’s belt loops and used it to pull the taller man out the door. Once safely in the hallway, however, he decided to keep it there, and coughed innocently when Wyatt gave him an amused glance.

“So,” hummed the blond, turning his head toward the wall to hide a blush. “Food, please?”

Smirking oh-so-knowingly, Wyatt slid his own fingers into Eric’s belt loops and said, “Yeah, sure.”

 

* * *

 

Unfortunately, Eric’s next encounter with London arrived much sooner than he had anticipated, and it was with quivering apprehension that he answered his phone the next week with London’s number flashing beneath the ‘call from’ icon.

After clearing his throat at least twice, he answered in what he hoped was not a wavering tone, “Hello?”

“Eric?” London’s voice was cold, almost clipped, and it made Eric’s gut twist violently.

He tightened his grip on the phone and forced a smile, only to realize London couldn’t see it. “Yeah,” he said nervously. “Hi, London.”

“Is Wyatt there with you?” asked the manager carefully.

Eric's heart clenched. “No,” he lied, when in actuality the redhead was napping on his couch in the next room.

“That's weird,” London said, still sounding downright acidic, and continued, “He's not answering his phone.”

“Er,” he choked. “Yeah, weird.” Since when was London such a sadistic fuck? He could have just come out and told Eric that he knew the blond had fucked up. This was worse than the time he’d caught him with Andy back in Milwaukee. He was pretty sure potentially causing a public scandal was worse than getting his twin to go to an interview for him.

“Anyway, could you pass this along to him for me?” asked the manager, continuing before Eric could reply, “We’ve gotten some offers for a charity concert in Atlanta, and I’m calling a band meeting on Wednesday.”

 _Band meeting_ , he thought to himself, followed closely by, _Yeah right_. Wednesday was three days from now, and that was not enough time to collect all his worldly possessions and compose a will for when London inevitably murdered him.

“Okay,” Eric choked out rather than releasing the nervous scream he was withholding. As of that moment, the upcoming meeting scared him more than Sophia on a bad day, and that was a _lot_.

“Brilliant. I’ll see you there.” There was a deadly pause. “And I’m counting on you to tell Wyatt for me.”

“Yeah,” Eric echoed hollowly, feeling his grip relax on his cell phone. “Bye, London.” And then before the manager could even respond, he clicked the off button and went straight into the next room and hurled the phone at Wyatt’s stomach. “Wake up,” he said urgently.

“Christ,” Wyatt yelped, jerking awake. He sat up and stared around himself in bewilderment for a moment before his hazel gaze came to rest on Eric, and he frowned. “What the hell was that for?”

“There’s a band meeting on Wednesday,” he hissed. “We’re fucked.”

Rubbing his forehead, Wyatt blinked sleepily and asked, “Wait, why are we fucked?”

“Band. Meeting. Wednesday,” he gritted out stuntedly, to which Wyatt merely appeared increasingly confused.

“Did I miss something?” he asked, dazed, as he shifted to a more comfortable position on the couch. “And sit down, you’re pacing and it’s annoying.”

“I am not pacing,” Eric snapped, and then looked down and realized he was. Frowning at Wyatt’s inappropriately amused face, he grumbled, “Oh, shut up,” and threw himself down next to his boyfriend.

“Thank you,” muttered the redhead, instantly sliding an arm around Eric’s shoulders as though on reflex. “So why are we screwed?”

“London knows.”

Wyatt’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he hissed, giving him a good shove. “Why would I lie about that kind of crap?”

Wyatt shrugged and shoved him back. “Well, you tend to get kind of overdramatic about things.”

“Overdramatic?” Eric shrieked indignantly as he pushed Wyatt off the couch and consequently onto his ass. “What do you mean, _overdramatic_?”

Wincing, Wyatt rubbed his back and looked up at him. “Uh, kind of like that, actually. What the fuck did you do that for?”

Eric haughtily tilted his chin upwards and folded his arms across his chest, sniffing, “For insulting me.”

“Oh, yeah, _that_ makes a lot of sense.” He crinkled his nose. “It’s not an insult if it’s the truth.”

Kicking him in the leg, Eric waved one hand (in an admittedly theatric fashion) in the air and tried to return Wyatt’s attention to the dire situation they were in. “London’s going to flay us skin from flesh in exactly three days unless _you_ come up with a brilliant lie to save our asses.”

Wyatt blinked at him. “Wait a minute, _what_?” Slowly, he climbed back onto the couch and squinted at him with a frown. “I seem to recall you saying _you_ would take the heat if he ever found out.”

Eric pursed his lips. He hadn’t really counted on Wyatt remembering that particular tidbit. Goddammit. Eventually, after much mental debate, he gritted out, “Fine,” and sank against the couch for a good sulk. “You could at least help me think of a good excuse, you know.”

Sighing, Wyatt adjusted his glasses and suggested “Why can’t we just tell him the truth?”

“What?” The blond sent him a sideways glance of shock. “Why would we do that?”

Wyatt gave him a pointed look. “Uh, so we don’t get our asses kicked even harder when London figures out that we lied to him?”

“Oh, whatever,” snorted the smaller man. “That only happens if you can’t think of a good enough lie.”

“Jesus,” Wyatt said, slumping sideways to half-drape himself across the armrest. He ran both hands through his hair and puffed out his cheeks, looking tired and stressed and as though he were trying very hard not to have a mental breakdown. “Just this once, can we do it my way?” And before Eric could disagree, he tacked on, “I’ll share the blame.”

“Fine,” Eric muttered as he followed suit to basically flop on top of Wyatt. “But if he tries to kill me, you have to protect me.”

“Sure,” Wyatt replied, almost absently, and pulled him close.


	19. Chapter 19

Actually, London hadn’t even been aware of Wyatt and Eric’s public incident when he’d called, but he sure as hell was when he stormed into the band meeting on Wednesday. The perpetrators in question were seated side-by-side on the side of the table opposite the door, and London sought them out with tempestuous gray eyes before he stomped over and threw a magazine down in front of them like a gauntlet.

“What,” he hissed, “is _this_?”

Cautiously, almost timidly, Eric leaned forward to inspect the page London had opened to, which displayed a rather large, somewhat blurry photograph of their excursion approximately one week prior. “It’s a friend kiss.”

“A friend kiss,” London repeated, barking out a strained laugh. He looked near-hysterical with what Eric assumed was either tension or rage. “Is that what you two are, then?” He gestured frantically between the other two men. “Just friends?”

“Um,” Wyatt said, looking awkward, while Eric surged forward and snapped, “No, but they don’t have to know that, do they?”

“They do now!” Reaching forward to snatch back the magazine, London shook it violently in their faces before he whirled to Cyrus and thrust it in front of him. “What would you think if you saw this?”

Cyrus shot a nervous look in Eric’s direction. “That they were really, really good friends?” he answered weakly.

“You,” London said, “are a _liar_.” He spun around to show the picture to the bassist instead. “James, be honest with me. First impressions?”

“Probably gay,” James replied with no hesitation whatsoever, looking almost eerily calm about the entire situation. If London hadn’t been so intent on bitching out Eric and Wyatt, the manager might have cuffed him for being so inappropriately serene during such alarming circumstances.

“There, you see,” said the gray-eyed man, turning round again to pin the two guilty men with a menacing glare. “So what do you two have to say for yourselves?”

“Don’t they have better things to be obsessing about?” Eric blurted immediately. “I mean, Cyrus just had a _baby_.”

“Sophia told me to thank you for dropping by yesterday, by the way,” Cyrus chimed, and then instantly sank into his chair as he was cowed by London’s glower. “Um, nevermind.”

“As I was about to say,” London hissed through gritted teeth with one last glare in the drummer’s direction, “Cyrus and Sophia understand _discretion_. You, however, do not.”

“That’s nothing new,” Eric scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “I mean, the website’s had Wyatt’s sexuality since day one, and fangirls love this sort of thing, right? What’s the big deal?”

From the blond’s side, Wyatt uttered a deep sigh and held his face in his hands, moaning, “Eric, will you please shut up?”

Eric ignored both him and the look London was giving him that said he was about to commit justifiable homicide at any moment. “I wonder how they got that picture, anyway?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” London snapped.

“Probably with a camera,” James noted with a deeply amused smile. Personally, Eric thought he was enjoying the whole situation just a little too much.

London’s jaw tightened at that, and he looked down at the magazine with a smoldering gaze that he transferred to everyone else in the room, one by one. “Does _anyone_ have a decent explanation for this?”

Gradually, Wyatt lifted his head and looked at the manager with tired hazel eyes. “It’s hard to kiss when you’re both wearing glasses,” he said eventually, and then automatically corrected himself, “or sunglasses, whatever. Eric took his off, and it happened.” A wince. “Sorry.”

And just like that, London’s gaze lost some of his heat and his face softened, if only fractionally. “Thank you, Wyatt,” he said crisply, and finally seated himself at the table, clearing his throat. “I’ll put PR on damage control, then. Regardless of whether or not fangirls will find it appealing, I think it’s the mystery of possibility that keeps them captivated.”

“Thanks,” the redhead mumbled, finally sitting up straight in his chair.

“…are you kidding?” Eric asked as he stared at London in disbelief. “That’s all you wanted?”

Pursing his lips, the manager pulled a pen and his datebook out of his front suit pocket and said, “Not quite, but the truth is very helpful when you’re trying to clean things up. Now, if you don’t mind.” He thumbed through his planner until he found the appropriate page and clicked his pen. “Is anyone opposed to the Atlanta trip?”

“Sophia,” Cyrus answered with a sheepish look. “She says Isabelle isn’t going to know her father if I keep running off.”

London nodded and made a note next to the bold print ATLANTA header he’d made in the planner. “Understandable,” he said. “We’ll get Hunter to sub for you, okay?”

“Thanks,” Cyrus replied with a grin and a grateful expression. Eric couldn’t exactly blame him; he wouldn’t want to be on Sophia’s bad side, either.

“Anyone else?” London asked, raising his head to scan the room. James smiled approvingly while Wyatt flashed a thumbs up and Eric made an exasperated noise.

“I’m not a _complete_ bastard,” the blond snorted. “Who’s honestly going to turn down a charity concert?”

With a look that plainly said, ‘With _you_ , I wouldn’t be surprised,’ London coughed into his hand and jotted down another note. “It was a last minute request, so we’ll have to start practice tomorrow. The show’s in two weeks, so I’ll have to buy the plane tickets tomorrow—”

“Hell no,” Eric blurted. “There’s no fucking way.”

London faltered mid-sentence. “Excuse me?”

Already paling at the thought of flying, Eric leaned forward urgently in his seat and said, “There is _no_ fucking way I am getting on another plane.”

“I’m not hiring an entire sleeper bus just because you don’t want to fly,” London said flatly. “You flew to England, and you flew to Japan, so I think you can handle a little flight to _Atlanta_.”

Actually, Eric could _not_ handle a flight to Atlanta, and he told London just that, except with a lot more cussing. “If you want me at that fucking show, then you’re going to find another fucking way for me to get there.”

“I’ll drive him,” Wyatt offered unexpectedly. He’d been sitting in his chair looking bored, as though he’d heard this argument a thousand times before, rolling his eyes at the ceiling as he scratched his nose.

“You’re enabling him,” London began to argue, but Wyatt cut him off with a glare.

“I’m not enabling him. We had to _drug_ him to get on the plane before, when driving wasn’t an option.” He folded his arms and frowned. “But now it _is_ an option, and I’d rather not have to perform with him pissy and sedated, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to drive him.”

Throwing his hands in the air, London finally yielded with, “Fine, fine, it’s your call,” as he wrote it down in his planner. “Just be there on time, please.”

“Sure,” Wyatt said with a curt nod, scooting his chair discreetly closer to Eric, who squeezed his hand appreciatively.

He ducked his head to whisper, “Thanks,” and Wyatt brushed his thumb his knuckles with a soft hum.

 

* * *

 

Atlanta was a thirty hour drive away, so it was more like a week and a half rather than two weeks when Eric and Wyatt piled their suitcases into the back of Wyatt’s car and set out on the Longest Fucking Road Trip of All Time, as Eric had mentally dubbed it. When he complained about the fact that they were literally driving straight across the country, Wyatt gave hime a flat look and asked if he’d rather be flying.

Touché.

Still, even if Eric preferred driving to flying, that didn’t keep the trip from being incredibly _boring_. He spent the first three hours with his feet on the dash, looking out the window and wondering if he’d remembered to water his fern. He was pretty sure he had, but he didn’t know if was going to last until he got back. It would really suck if it died while he was away. As much as he hated to admit it, he’d sort of gotten attached to it. It wasn’t until they stopped for gas that something interesting happened, and that wasn’t even so much _interesting_ as it was incredibly irritating.

“We’re lost,” Eric felt the need to point out, _again_ , as Wyatt drove past Elm Street, then Oak, then Cedar, and several other tree streets, all of which they’d passed half an hour ago when they had somehow managed to trap themselves on the circular route from hell.

Several times, Wyatt had attempted turning onto non-tree streets – Locust, for example, although that had apparently been some kind of omen for a plague of catastrophic proportions, because they were _still_ stuck in this godforsaken tree town. Locust led to Walnut, which had seemed mildly suspicious, being somewhat tree-oriented, and then it curved and suddenly turned into Maple, and Eric felt like tearing his hair out.

“We’re not _lost_ ,” Wyatt snapped back with a particularly rough jerk of the steering wheel. In the back seat, the bag of junk food they’d bought at the gas station shifted and tipped onto its side, effectively littering the charcoal-colored seats with a sea of potato chips and other snackables.

After a dramatically put-upon sigh, Eric unbuckled his seatbelt and twisted into his seat to jam everything back into the little plastic bag, which he tried to tie together to prevent anything else from spilling along the way. He squawked when a sudden bump made him hit his head on the roof, and he glared at Wyatt as he sank back into his seat.

“Pot hole,” Wyatt explained with a twitchy smile.

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” he muttered, tossing his hair out of his eyes as he clicked on his seatbelt and popped open the glove compartment to poke around. The first thing he found was a suspicious-looking black thing with a honed, almost sharp edge. Horrified, he sent Wyatt a suspicious, sideways glance and wondered if he was secretly a serial killer or something.

Wyatt didn’t seem to be doing anything that a psychotic murderer would do, though. He was just scratching his nose and mumbling to himself about trees. Eventually, Eric decided that Wyatt probably would have killed him by now if he was going to do it, so he reached over and tugged the redhead’s sleeve.

“What?” he with a brief glance in Eric’s direction.

“What the fuck,” he asked, holding up the black thing, “is this?”

Wyatt gave him a decidedly dubious look. “That’s an ice scraper.”

“An ice scraper,” Eric repeated. “What the fuck is that?”

Laughing unexpectedly, Wyatt turned to him as he put on the brakes for a stop sign and said, “Are you kidding? It’s an ice scraper.” At Eric’s annoyed look, he elaborated, “It scrapes ice. You know, off your windshield?”

Eric stared blankly. “Why would you have ice on your windshield?”

“Oh, right,” Wyatt said, holding in another little laugh, “I forgot. You’re from Southern California.”

Eric puffed out his cheeks indignantly and frowned. “What’s _that_ got to do with it?”

Smirking, Wyatt reached over to ruffle the blond’s hair before he stepped on the gas and resumed driving down the street. “The rest of the world has this little thing called frost. And snow. And we don’t have chauffeurs to scrape it off for us, Mr. Rich Pants. Your windshield ices over and you have to scrape it off so you can see.”

“What the hell? You live in California, too,” Eric said sulkily as he replaced the ice scraper in the glove compartment. “How come you know about it?”

“I’m originally from Milwaukee,” Wyatt reminded him as he put on his blinker to turn on Cherry Street, which was still technically a type of tree, but it was better than heading down Elm again. Maybe this one led to a bunch of fruit streets or something. “And anyway, I’m pretty sure the rest of California knows about it and you’re just sheltered.”

“Whatever,” Eric huffed and slumped against the window. “We’re still fucking lost. Aren’t there any freeway signs around or anything?”

“No,” Wyatt answered exasperatedly. “The only sign around is across the street, telling me to buy cigarettes for less without even taking out the time to spell out _four_. It’s three letters, for chrissakes. Who’s seriously that stupid?”

“ _You_ are,” Eric pointed out, “Mr. I-Don’t-Need-A-Map.”

“There’s a distinct difference between being too lazy to buy a map and simply not needing one,” he countered with a disdainful snort. “My case is obviously the latter.”

“Oh, obviously,” Eric mocked. “Is that why we’re lost in the middle of bumblefuck nowhere?”

“Shut up, I know exactly where we are.” Leaning across him, Wyatt pointed out the window to a street sign and said, “See? We’re at Cherry and Pine.”

“Whatever. Take a left here.”

Wyatt was already turning the wheel before he thought to ask, “Wait, why?”

“Just watch.”

“Fine,” Wyatt mumbled as he navigated down Pine, only to decelerate in awe as they passed a freeway sign. “How the fuck did you know that?”

“I noticed it while you were bitching about proper spelling,” he said smugly, propping his feet on the dashboard and grinning. “You can thank me later.”

“I would have figured it out eventually,” Wyatt defended himself, but said nothing else as he turned mercficully onto the 40 towards Las Vegas.

“Sure,” Eric cackled with a rather victorious smile, and privately decided to buy a map at their next stop.

 

* * *

 

“I never want to drive for that long ever again,” Eric declared as he wearily closed the trunk and slung his duffle bag over his shoulder, stretching as he walked to catch up with Wyatt and check in at the hotel.

“You didn’t even drive,” Wyatt scoffed, catching him by the waist, and rested his hand comfortably on the blond’s hip. “And we have to do it again tomorrow.”

“Ughhh.” Letting his head drop onto Wyatt’s shoulder, Eric pouted and shuffled his feet all the way to the front desk, where he dropped his duffel bag and promptly sat on it while he let Wyatt take care of everything. He kept one hand on the redhead, however, practically clutching his leg as he attempted to neither fall asleep nor topple sideways.

“Hey,” Wyatt said once he was finished, nudging the smaller man with his knee. “Get up.”

“Hwah?” Eric hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes until he had to open them to blink at him.

“Time to go.” Tucking their room key into his back pocket, he grasped Eric by his forearms (not his wrists, since he was paranoid about hurting them now) and hauled him to his feet. “You okay?”

“Tired,” he mumbled, feeling no shame in leaning his entire body against Wyatt’s as they trekked to their room on the third floor. “And my back hurts.”

“You’ll be fine,” Wyatt told him, pushing the button for the elevator and yawning.

Seeing Wyatt yawn only made Eric yawn, too, and the blond made a sleepy sound as the elevator finally dinged and opened. Once inside, Eric dropped his bag to the floor and slumped against the wall. “I hate road trips.”

“Me too,” Wyatt mumbled. “We still have fourteen hours to drive tomorrow.”

The smaller man moaned, “Oh, christ,” and refused to move out of sheer exhaustion when the elevator doors swept open on the third floor.

“Come on, Eric.” Frowning, Wyatt pulled him to his feet for the second time in the past ten minutes. The blond was like a dead weight in his hands, but he was light enough that it wasn’t hard to support him on the way to their room by holding Eric’s arms, which were slim and long like willow branches.

Once they were inside the room, Eric instantly stumbled over to the bed and flopped onto it face-first without even removing his shoes. “Goodnight,” he called, muffled against the comforter, and finally yielded to fatigue.

He could hear Wyatt sigh as the singer walked over to the bed, followed by two thumps, which Eric assumed were their bags. “Are you going to put on your pajamas or anything?”

“No,” he said, burrowing against the pillow. “I’m going to sleep.”

“’kay.”

As Wyatt sat, Eric felt the mattress sink, and he managed to rally enough energy to roll onto his back and toe off his shoes before he climbed underneath the covers. He was too tired to even wash his face or brush his teeth. “Hurry up,” he mumbled.

“In a minute,” Wyatt said, and Eric grumbled incoherently under his breath until he felt Wyatt joined him underneath the blankets, at which point Eric immediately rolled over to curl against him. The redhead was warm, and Eric made a pleased noise and slid his hand up the back of his shirt to rest between his shoulder blades.

“Night,” he whispered as he tucked his head underneath Wyatt’s chin, face pressed against his neck.

“Hold on,” Wyatt murmured as he pulled Eric’s hand back, delicately holding his wrist as he began strapping on one of the splints. “You’ll regret it tomorrow if you don’t wear these.”

Eric made a distinctly annoyed noise in the back of his throat, but didn’t protest the point further, simply because he knew Wyatt was right. He allowed the redhead to strap on both wrist splints, the sound of velcro grating in his ears, and mumbled incoherently before pressing his entire body flush against the singer’s.

“Are you done?” he asked with the last of his lucidity. He was struggling to keep his eyes open, so he let them shut and hummed at the way his stomach flip-flopped pleasantly when Wyatt grabbed his waist and tugged him even closer.

“Yup,” answered the other man, and then leaned down to kiss Eric softly on the mouth, smiling against his skin. “Night.”

“Mm.” Returning the smile, Eric tucked both hands beneath Wyatt’s shirt, fingers curled against his stomach, and fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t until the next day, two hours into the drive, that Wyatt turned the radio down and gave Eric a look from the corner of his eye. “So, why are you so afraid of flying, anyway?”

Normally, Eric would have snorted or rolled his eyes and tossed out a flippant answer, like, ‘Hello, I might _die_ ,’ but today he merely sagged in his seat, mouth slanting downwards. “Because.”

Wyatt blew out an exasperated sigh and momentarily rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “Because why?”

Bristling, Eric crossed his arms tightly, jaw clenched, and forced out, “Someone I knew died in a plane crash.”

The car swerved a little. “Seriously?” Wyatt asked, wincing. He was chewing his lip with a hopeless look, and he took one hand off the wheel to grope blindly for the blond’s hand. “I’m sorry, Eric.”

“Mm,” he hummed, clamping down on the memories in his mind, and bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. He absolutely refused to elaborate on the subject.

 _You can’t just pretend it never happened_ , he remembered Eleanor saying. Well, fuck that. Just because he’d never told anyone exactly what happened didn’t make it any less real. It still stung, still made it hard to breathe sometimes, and if he wanted to repress it, that was his business, not Eleanor’s.

He could tell Wyatt wanted to say something else, so he pulled the lever to recline his seat and abruptly turned onto his side, facing the window. “Wake me at the next stop,” he said, a little too snappishly, and pretended to sleep the entire way to Atlanta.

 

* * *

 

“You’re early,” London greeted them with a pleasantly surprised expression. After the Longest Fucking Road Trip of All Time and Wyatt were both incredibly tired, not to mention cranky, so they merely gave him two matching, mechanical waves before they headed straight for the dressing room.

James was nowhere to be found, but Hunter was there, along with the same skinny little black-haired kid he’d been hanging out with at Eric’s birthday party. The blond paused, frowning at him as he tried to remember his name, or at least who he was, but alas, no success.

“Who the crap are you?” he asked as he tossed his duffel bag (which contained a change of clothes for the show and a whole lot of hair products) into the corner.

“Kapnias,” the other man answered, crinkling his nose. “You’re the one who used to post all the time on the forums, right?”

“Yeah,” Eric replied with a frown. Kapnias. Now why the fuck was that name familiar?

With a suspiciously malevolent-looking smile, Kapnias said, “It’s nice to finally meet you,” and started to surge forward when Hunter’s hand shot out and caught him by the arm.

“Don’t even think about it,” he muttered. “You can punch him after the show.”

“Punch him?” Wyatt piped up from behind the pianist, suddenly seeming considerably more alert.

No matter how hard Kapnias tried to struggle against Hunter, the drum tech had a lot of height and muscle on his side, and he appeared to be exerting minimal effort as he held the black-haired man back from a bloody rampage. Sighing, Hunter merely pulled him back and forced him into a chair.

“He’s just pissed about something you said on the forums,” he explained flatly as he ruffled the still-thrashing man’s hair.

Eric stared at him blankly. “What are you talking about?”

He shrugged. “No clue. Apparently you yelled at him with lots of caps and exclaimation points on a post once. I try not to ask questions.”

“I see,” Eric said, although he actually didn’t see at all. “Sorry about that?”

Hunter shrugged again. “He’ll get over it,” he said, and abruptly began tugging Kapnias out of the seat he’d just forced him into. “Let’s go make sure Mitch isn’t fucking up any of the equipment.”

For a moment, Kapnias merely regarded Eric with dark, angry eyes, but a nudge from Hunter forced his gaze away. “Fine,” he mumbled, and sulkily clung to Hunter’s side as they made their way out of the room.

Eric watched all of this with a detached sense of bemusement; despite spending the past twelve hours with his eyes closed, he hadn’t actually been able to sleep, and he was way too tired to deal with this shit. Yawning and stretching his desperately aching limbs, he childishly declared, “I’m going to take a nap,” and then flopped on top of his giant duffle bag. “Wyatt, get over here.”

Wyatt, who was still standing by the door, started and glanced at him in surprise. “Huh? What do you want?” he asked, even as he moved to stand in front of the blond.

Taking hold of both Wyatt’s hands, he grunted, “Lap pillow,” and gave him a tug that sent him sprawling on the floor next to him. His boyfriend gave a surprised yelp, which Eric promptly ignored in favor of tipping sideways to prop his head on Wyatt’s thigh.

“Um, okay,” said the redhead, giving a short, almost nervous laugh as he delved one hand into Eric’s hair. After a brief moment of hesitation, he began carding through the soft blond strands, occasionally brushing his fingertips against Eric’s temple, or his cheekbone, or the curve of his lips. It was soothing – almost hypnotic, even – and the pianist quickly found himself closing his eyes and teetering towards sleep.

Until his phone started vibrating, anyway.

“Oh, what the fuck,” he spat in annoyance, digging violently through his hoodie pocket until he caught the offending device. Sitting up, he flipped it open with rising annoyance and saw it was a text message.

 

From: Peter

Message: You’re kind of a dumbass. :o Good luck at the show tonight, Mr. Public Scandal.

Sent: June 04 4:02 pm

 

“Ugh,” Eric hissed and snapped it shut. He really wasn’t in the mood to deal with this kind of bullshit, so he stuffed the phone under his duffel bag and returned his head to Wyatt’s lap and moaned dramatically, “I hate life.”

Rolling his eyes at Eric’s constant theatrics, Wyatt returned his hand to its previous position and asked, “What happened?”

Eric, who was feeling more and more stressed with every passing second, rolled to hide his face against Wyatt’s stomach and mumbled, “Peter knows, so every skinny scene kid in the _area_ knows, and I’m a stupid fuck and I don’t wanna play anymore.”

“You lost me,” Wyatt said dryly, prying Eric’s face away so he could look into his eyes, raising both eyebrows quizzically. “What are you talking about?”

Miserably, Eric covered his face with his hands and groaned, “Peter heard about the—” lacking the words to explain, he bit his lip and made grandiose hand gestures instead “—the thing. With us. In that magazine.”

Wyatt still didn’t seem to see the problem. “So what?”

“ _So_ ,” Eric yelled, suddenly sitting up, “everybody probably knows by now.” And then his entire expression crumpled into despair, his sudden urgency deflated, and the sudden absence of urgency made him sink against Wyatt’s side. “How the hell did they get that story out so quickly, anyway?”

“Unfortunate timing,” Wyatt said, and at Eric’s confused glance, he elaborated, “Beginning of the month? New issues?”

He slumped even more. “Oh.”

Snaking an arm around his shoulders, the singer shook him lightly and cracked a smile. “Come on, don’t freak out. What are you worried about?”

“London, mostly,” he mumbled as he nestled closer to Wyatt’s warmth. “And also getting beaten up. What if the entire fanbase hates me now?”

Wyatt shrugged and gave the blond a tight, one-armed hug. “If it happens, it happens.” And then he saw Eric’s horrified look, and he stifled a laugh and quickly amended, “Not the getting beaten up thing. The fan thing. Security’s not going to let anyone hurt you.”

Ducking his head to pout, Eric bumped his shoulder against Wyatt’s and grumbled, “It didn’t seem like anybody was going to stop Kapnias.”

“Well,” Wyatt said, giving him a pointed look, “you sort of deserved that one. Seriously. I had to deal with that, too, and it sucked.”

“I said it was an _accident_ ,” Eric muttered right as his cell phone buzzed again, and he retrieved it from beneath his bag with a drawn out sigh. Another text.

 

From: Peter

Message: Lex says nice job, by the way. Scandals are good free publicity.

Sent: June 04 4:07 pm

 

Eric made a face at the screen. “Fucker,” he mumbled, and then tossed it onto the floor in annoyance.

Wyatt was smirking, his eyebrows raised in unspoken amusement as he said, “Should I ask?”

“No,” the blond sulked, tipping into the warmth of the other man’s side. He sighed and rubbed his wrist almost absently, in anticipation of the upcoming performance, and tilted his chin up to ask, “Where is James, anyway?”

Wyatt rolled his shoulder in an apathetic shrug. “Placating the fans or something. I dunno.”

“Huh.”

Pulling away to sit up straight, Eric craned his neck to sneak a glance outside the door. Beyond it, the crews for other bands (plus the members themselves) were shuffling around in various groups, mostly standing around drinking water bottles while a select few hauled around equipment. Eric had been expecting considerably more chaos, but it appeared that the spirit of charity had suddenly inspired everyone with organization and time management skills. Either that, or they were really all just loafing around under the pretense of productiveness. Which actually made a whole lot more sense.

“Whatever,” he said once he’d finally had his fill, and reclaimed his position with the added bonus of propping his head on Wyatt’s shoulder, his sunny hair spread across his shoulder like a fan. “The crowd isn’t entirely here for us, anyway.”

Wyatt gave him a _look_. “Yeah, but in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re sort of garnering a lot of attention right now.”

A derisive snort. “It’s not even a big deal,” he muttered. “It looked totally innocent. We can pass it off as a friend kiss.”

It seemed like Wyatt was just about to open his mouth to comment (with a disagreement, most likely), when Eric’s phone buzzed for the third time. Scowling outright, the blond flipped it open with a snort and was just about to say a few choice words about Peter’s mother when he saw that it wasn’t from the half-Chinese man at all. He stared at it for a moment before reading it with a sense of deep, spiraling horror.

 

From: Drew

Message: Mom knows.

Sent: June 04 4:15 PM

 

“Ohhhh, shit,” he said, pushing away from Wyatt with wild terror as he frantically texted back. There was no way, there was no _fucking_ way – except it was public news now, and oh God, he was royally fucked. But still, he couldn’t help but hold onto some kind of dwindling hope.

 

To: Drew

Message: knows what?

Sent: June 04 4:16 PM

 

He hit ‘send’ and crossed both of his fingers, his phone open on his lap, and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment when he felt it vibrating.

 

From: Drew

Message: Everything.

Sent: June 04 4:17 PM

 

At this point, Eric didn’t even have words to express his panic. He was beyond panic, actually. His heartbeat was thudding in his ears, except it felt like he didn’t even have a heart anymore, so really it was just a bunch of thundering noise inside his head that was absolutely not helping him think of a way out of this situation.

“Eric?” Wyatt prompted after several minutes of silence, during which Eric had pulled his knees against his chest and hidden his face.

The blond lifted one hand to signify that he was listening.

Almost hesitantly, Wyatt scooted up against his side again and placed one hand one the small of his back, his fingers tracing the distinct line of his spine. “What’d it say?”

“That I’m disowned,” he said miserably into his knees. He could feel Wyatt’s fingers suddenly digging into his skin, clutching the back of his shirt, and he arched away from his hand with a soft noise of distress.

“Er, sorry,” Wyatt mumbled, relaxing his hand, and rubbed small, warm circles instead. “That just surprised me. Is that really what it said?”

“No,” he groaned, “but that’s what it _meant_.”

“Eric,” the redhead sighed, sounding painful and helpless, and suddenly abandoned his back in favor of looping both arms around Eric and pulling him into an almost bone-crushing hug. He exhaled against his neck, almost hot enough to be uncomfortable, and it made the hair on the back of Eric’s neck stand on end. Wyatt’s sentence lingered, obviously unfinished, but it appeared he didn’t know how to end it.

“Don’t worry about it,” the pianist eventually mumbled, and pushed Wyatt’s arms away. At Wyatt’s open-mouthed look of surprise and intense sympathy, he brushed off his knees and unfolded to his feet with a grimace. “It’s not your problem, anyway.”

Wyatt pursed his lips, but didn’t comment. He was just pushing to his feet to stand next to him, hand outstretched for Eric’s, when London popped into the room.

“How are you two doing?” he asked, and his eyes only resting on their near-hand holding for a split-second before his gaze flickered back up to his faces. And then he seemed to notice Eric’s stricken expression, because he kicked the door closed and dropped his ever-present datebook on one of the chairs. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked, obviously addressing Eric.

What he really wanted to say was something along the lines of, ‘I probably just lost my family and I kind of want to cry, but we have a show in a couple of hours and I don’t want to look ugly in front of the fans.’ That was sort of long-winded and dramatic, though, so he settled for shutting his eyes and drawing in a breath so deep that his stomach swelled.

Finally, he looked London in the eye and lied, “Nothing.” And then he heard Wyatt’s intake of air behind him, and he knew the redhead was going to say something stupid to expose him, so he quickly continued with, “I think I’m going to find James.”

London gave him a moderately confused look at his puzzling behavior. “He’s at the back door signing autographs.”

“Cool,” Eric said, even though he was inwardly cringing, because he _hated_ interacting with the fans. His only other alternative was facing his possible disownment, however, and he just did _not_ want to go there right now. Or ever. And if Wyatt was going to make him do that, he was going to slit his own throat.

Looking increasingly more bewildered by the second, London started to ask, “Are you sure you want to—” but Eric cut him off with a snappish, “ _Yes_ ,” and literally pushed him out of the way as he walked out of the room.

Behind him, he heard a muffled apology from Wyatt, followed quickly by rapid footsteps as the redhead sprinted a few steps to catch up with him. “What the fuck was that?”

“Nothing,” Eric growled, hunching his shoulders dismally, and refused to meet his boyfriend’s eyes. “I just feel like talking to the fans tonight.” And then he grimaced, because that was an incredibly crappy lie, but he didn’t have the energy to expand upon it.

“Eric,” murmured the singer seriously, and caught Eric by his arm to spin him around. His hazel eyes were narrowed, and his mouth was slanted in a half-grimace, half-concerned frown. “You aren’t seriously planning on ignoring this, are you?”

“Actually, I am,” he said delicately as he extracted his arm from Wyatt’s grasp with considerably more force than necessary. What Wyatt didn’t know was that Eric was actually an expert at ignoring very large events in his life, such as – well. He didn’t really want to think about that right now.

He didn’t want to think about _anything_ , really.

Apparently Wyatt wasn’t having any of Eric’s bullshit tonight, because he dug both hands into Eric’s biceps and held him in place. He leaned in so close that their noses were nearly touching, and if it had been any other situation, it might have been romantic. Now, however, Wyatt’s gaze was too smolderingly intense for Eric to feel anything other than a subtle spark of fear.

“Look,” the redhead said finally, pulling away with an unhappy expression, “I’m not going to pretend to know what’s going on with you, but this needs to stop. You’ve been acting weird since Morgan and Eleanor’s wedding, and you seriously need to get over whatever happened there, because this is getting old. Fast.”

Eric’s jaw dropped as he looked at Wyatt, who suddenly appeared just as surprised as well. He abruptly released Eric and took two steps back, holding his hands up defensively.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed with a horrified face. “It’s – I know your life sucks right now.” An exaggerated-looking cringe. “I shouldn’t be being a bastard right now.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Eric hissed, but it lacked his usual ire. Right now, he just felt drained, and he honestly did not want to think about the wedding, or plane crashes, or Danny, or that stupid fucking magazine and how his parents probably hated him now. He just wanted to play this damn show and go the fuck home, or maybe even just nap in the car while Wyatt played with his hair.

He just wanted all of this shit to be _over_.

“I’m sorry,” Wyatt repeated, and started to reach for his wrist, but he faltered at the very last second and shoved his hand in his pocket instead. Secretly, Eric felt very disappointed by that, and he frowned.

He muttered, “It’s fine,” and rubbed at his face tiredly. His knees felt weak, like all the strength had been drained from them simply by receiving a single text message. Weird how his life revolved around that phone sometimes.

“It’s not,” Wyatt murmured, gently placing his hand on Eric’s shoulder. He gave it an inconspicuous squeeze before he let go, trailing his palm all the way down his arm to his fingertips. “Do you want me to leave you alone or something?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t really, but he _did_ want to call Andrew to freak the fuck out and possibly cry, but he absolutely did not want Wyatt around for that. It was going to be embarrassing.

Valiantly managing not to look hurt, Wyatt gave a curt nod and a feather-light touch against the jut of his hipbone before he left. Once he’d gone, Eric sneaked back into the dressing room and locked the door before he flipped open his phone to call his twin and ask some very emotional questions about his current status in the family.


	20. Chapter 20

Eric didn’t want to talk about how great the show had been, or how Hunter had been such a fantastic replacement for Cyrus, or even how the audience hadn’t seemed to react negatively to his relationship with Wyatt. He didn’t want to talk about much of anything, really, and if that pissed Wyatt off, then that was just fine. Right now, the blond’s mind was seemingly permanently stuck on the conversation he’d shared with Andrew.

He sat slumped against the window, folded almost into a fetal position, as small as he could possibly get in the passenger seat. His family had not, in fact, disowned him, which had been such a great relief that Eric had sunk to his knees in the middle of the dressing room and heaved an enormous sigh.

As it turned out, his mother was much, much more disappointed by the fact that her son had irresponsibly run off to become a rock star (and a roadie before that, even! How shameful!) than she was in his sexuality. She’d guessed it a long time ago, apparently, which was anything but funny, in Eric’s opinion. He hadn’t even known his own fucking sexuality until just recently, so it was quite unfair that everyone around him had known literally years before him.

But even that wasn’t what was bothering him. Eric wasn’t the pissy little bitch he’d been when London had first hired him – except, okay, he was, but he’d toned it down considerably, he thought. He didn’t throw tantrums in hotel hallways or hit people with chairs, and he wouldn’t be sullenly staring out the car window and watching as it began to rain just because his mother had strongly suspected his homosexuality for the past five years.

It must have been Emotional Torture month or something with the Forsters, because Andrew, whom Eric had thought was on his side, had dropped the D-word at the end of their conversation.

“You can’t blame her for being mad about the band. Ever since Danny died, she’s been counting on you to take over the family business.”

Eric hadn’t even known what to say. His heart had clenched and slammed against his chest as his mouth went unexpectedly dry. Somehow, he’d managed to stammer out, “Everyone knows you’re better suited to business than I am,” and absently wiped his suddenly sweaty palm on his jeans, carefully sidestepping the D-word, and swallowed roughly. “Anyway, I need to go now. I’ll talk to you later, Drew.” And he’d hung up and buried his phone at the bottom of his duffel bag and refused to look at it again.

He still hadn’t looked at it, actually. It was in the trunk, still mixed in with his clothes and toothbrush, and he was sort of hoping that it had gotten crushed or broken or something. That way, he’d have to take it in for repairs or get a new one, and he’d have a good excuse for ignoring everyone’s calls and texts, which he most certainly planned to do.

It was a good plan, he thought.

Wyatt, however, was not on board with the whole ignoring humanity thing. He seemed absolutely incapable of keeping to himself and letting Eric sulk spectacularly in the next seat, and he kept sneaking sidelong glances at him with concerned little frowns that almost made Eric feel guilty. Almost.

“Are you okay?” Wyatt asked for at least the tenth time since they’d started driving back to California. Eric hunched his shoulders up farther toward his ears and snorted softly, pressing his forehead against the glass.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, although he clearly was not, and Wyatt wasn’t afraid to call him out on it.

“This is getting ridiculous,” the singer muttered, flipped on his blinker, and started pulling over onto the side of the highway. “We’re going to stop, and we’re going to talk about this.”

Eric kicked the glove box unhappily. “I don’t want to,” he grumbled. “I just want to go home and go to sleep.”

“That’s not gonna happen,” Wyatt said with absolutely no sympathy. “We need to figure this thing out right now, before it gets out of hand.”

“It’s nothing,” he insisted, and Wyatt narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“It’s your family,” he deduced after a long pause, and frowned and reached out to touch his hand. His hazel eyes appeared softer, and he stroked Eric’s knuckles almost tenderly.

“No shit,” Eric said, rolling his eyes. He tried to look gruff, but the façade was ruined when he curled his fingers to hold Wyatt’s hand. It felt warm and comforting against his skin.

“Whatever.” Wyatt frowned and dropped his hand. “I’ll stop pressuring you to talk about it. Not much I can do after you turn on bitch mode.”

“I am not in bitch mode,” Eric snapped, hulking down in his seat. Quite obviously, he was in bitch mode, but he refused to admit it. He just wanted to sit and brood.

Wyatt snorted. “Yes, you are, and you know it, and you’re just being a stubborn prick because you think you can get away with it.”

That summed it up quite nicely, Eric thought. He glared at his boyfriend and said, “So what? Maybe I wouldn’t be a bitch if you didn’t keep trying to get me to talk about my family when I obviously don’t want to.”

“So it _is_ your family!”

It took a considerable amount of self control not to reach over and smack him. The fact that Wyatt was had put on the blinker again and was pulling back onto the highway probably helped curb the impulse, because if he’d punched him, they probably would have gotten into a car crash and died. He just growled and wiped his face with his hand and hissed, “Yes, okay? It’s my family. Now will you just shut up?”

“Yes,” Wyatt said, looking unfairly pleased with himself, and reached over and squeezed Eric’s knee.

“Don’t,” Eric mumbled, but didn’t push him away. “I’m gonna go to sleep now.”

“Okay.” Without taking his eyes off the road, Wyatt sought out Eric’s hand and raised it to his lips, brushing a kiss over his knuckles gently. “I’ll wake you up when we’re home,” he murmured, and dropped his hand to finger Eric’s sunny hair for a moment before he finally returned both hands to the steering wheel.

Eric merely grunted in response and closed his eyes.

 

* * *

 

When he woke up, he was not where he wanted to be.

His parents’ house was as large and foreboding as ever, cold stone with columns and a gray-tiled roof. For a moment all he could do was stare, hoping almost desperately that he was still asleep, but the window was cold against his cheek and his back was stiff, and he knew that he was awake. When he turned his head, he could see Wyatt was looking at him warily, obviously waiting for an angry explosion.

Eric, however, didn’t quite have the energy for an explosion. Or rather, he did, but he didn’t know what to explode about first. Pursing his lips, he undid his seatbelt very slowly, sitting up straight in his seat, and hissed between gritted teeth, “What. Are. We. Doing. Here?”

Wyatt seemed considerably less confident about his plan now. “Solving your issues?” he replied somewhat weakly.

“My issues,” he repeated, listening to his heartbeat pound in his ears. He couldn’t believe Wyatt had done something so stupid. “I believe my issues mostly lie with your incompetence at the moment. How exactly did you think this was a good idea?”

“You have family issues, so I thought you could talk it out with them?” Wyatt suggested, looking sheepish and somewhat guilty. “I don’t get why you’re freaking out so much.”

Valiantly not stabbing him with the ice scraper, Eric took a deep breath and looked him in the eyes and said, “My parents just found out that I am gay. With you. In a rock band. Regardless of the fact that my mother has apparently thought I was gay since I was about five years old, I do not exactly want to see them right now, nor do I think they want to see me.”

“I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” Wyatt reasoned. “No parent would turn away their son.”

Eric merely glared. “You’ll see,” he muttered darkly, and opened the car door.

 

* * *

 

“Scruffy,” Astair declared as she evaluated Wyatt with a critical eye. The assessment wasn’t really that far off, since Wyatt was wearing a holey band T-shirt and had neglected to shave yet again. Still, accuracy aside, Eric couldn’t help but be offended. This was his mother, however, and he knew he couldn’t possibly win any argument he might start, so he just grunted and rolled his eyes.

“Thanks,” he drawled sarcastically.

“Mm,” she replied, shifting her gaze from Wyatt to Eric. Her eyes narrowed. “As for you,” she began loftily, “you need a haircut. If you’re going to be a rock star, then you’re going to represent the family properly. Your image is all wrong.”

For a brief, terrifying moment, Eric flashed back to the eyeliner incident with Peter after he’d originally joined the band. He hadn’t exactly had a lot of luck obtaining a ‘rock star’ look in the past, and he wasn’t keen to go through it all over again. “I think I’ll pass,” he said.

“Unfortunately, you don’t have a choice. I’ll arrange an appointment with the stylist for tomorrow morning. Make sure you’re awake and ready to go.” She paused and glanced at Wyatt again. “Would your boyfriend like an appointment, too?”

Bristling, Eric clutched Wyatt’s hand and snapped, “No, he would not, and neither would I, thanks. We’ve got plans tomorrow.” _To get the hell out of here_ , he finished in his head.

“I’ve already told you, you have no choice,” Astair repeated with a prim, red smile. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have a few things I need to attend to. Your father’s home from his business trip, if you’d like to chat. He’s in the study.”

And with that, she turned and left, leaving Eric and Wyatt alone and standing awkwardly in the foyer. Eric released his hand and wiped his palm on his pants; his palms always seemed to get sweaty whenever he spoke with Astair.

“So, that’s my mother,” he said flatly, crossing his arms in annoyance. He scuffed his shoes on the floor and hoped they left marks. Stupid Astair.

“She seems terrifying,” Wyatt said.

“She is.” Leaning against him, Eric hooked his arm around his waist and rested his head on his shoulder with a grumpy look. “Would you like to get the whole thing over with and meet my dad already?”

“Is he less scary than your mom?”

Good question. Eric made a face as he thought it over. “He’s scary in a different way,” he said eventually. “You’ll see.”

Wyatt looked somewhat reluctant, but he pursed his lips and nodded. “Okay. Lead the way.”

Looking about as thrilled with the situation as Wyatt, if not less, Eric grabbed the redhead’s hand and tugged him down the hallway towards his father’s office.

Danforth greeted them with a grumpy face that had Wyatt lingering in the doorway, making Eric scoff and roll his eyes. He pulled the taller man into the room, earning a soft grunt of annoyance (or, he suspected, a little bit of fear), and evenly met his father’s gaze. Danforth, however, seemed to pay them little notice; he flicked his eyes back to the paperwork splayed across his desk, mixed in with a medley of knickknacks and a general assortment of what Astair would probably call trash but Danforth would insist was viable paperwork.

“I changed my mind,” Wyatt whispered feverishly into his ear, tugging at his hand. “I prefer your mother.”

Eric merely snorted, brushing off the concern, and endured a few more beats of oppressive silence before he whined, “Daaaaad,” and kicked his desk.

And just like that, Danforth’s expression broke. Into a _smile_ , of all things. Laughing, he rose to his feet and offered up a sheepish, “You caught me!” as he roped both of them into a tight hug. Eric scowled appropriately while Wyatt simply looked terrified. Danforth grinned in response and started shaking Wyatt’s hand. “Wyatt, right? I’m Danforth, Eric’s father. Welcome to the family! Have fun with my amazing, beautiful wife.” He winked. “I hear she wants to do makeovers.”

Eric stared. “You werelistening?”

Danforth waved a dismissive hand and continued babbling, “Matters not. I hope you appreciate the trouble she goes through. Oh, and Eric, your brother should be back soon! He’s out with a friend. Did you tell him you were coming?”

“No.” He aimed a heated glare at Wyatt and resisted the urge to kick his shin. “It was kind of a surprise.”

“Yes,” Wyatt chimed in, clearing his throat. “A surprise. For you. And your family. Uh.” He tugged at his collar uncomfortably. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

With a warm smile, Danforth clasped Wyatt’s shoulder almost painfully hard before he finally released them from his death embrace. “Make yourself at home,” he said to Wyatt, and then, to Eric, “It’s good to see you again, son. We’ve missed you.”

 _Yes, and that’s why you turned my room into a study,_ he thought dully, but what he actually said was:

“Thanks. You too.”

He was pretty proud of himself for that one.

 

* * *

 

Once they were suitably out of earshot, Wyatt drew him aside and confessed with an oddly serious expression, “I am deeply sorry for bringing you to your parents’ house. It’s incredibly uncomfortable and I want to leave. Let’s just run.”

“Too bad,” Eric said, shaking off his hands. “We’re here now and I want to see Drew.”

Wyatt made a face. “You think he would have mentioned he was here or something when you were talking to him.”

“We were kind of distracted at the time,” Eric snapped. Possibly being disowned by his parents had been a big fucking deal, okay? “Also, it’s summer. Of course he’s here. Nobody in their right mind would stay in freaking Milwaukee. That place is a dump.”

“That place is where my family is from,” Wyatt cut in with a frown. “Avery stays there over the summer.”

“What about Avery?” someone who sounded very much like Eric asked.

“Drew!” Eric crowed, flinging himself on the slightly (okay, significantly) more muscular version of himself.

Andrew hugged him back so tightly that he actually lifted him off his feet a little. “I take it Mom and Dad didn’t disown you, then?”

“No, but Astair wants to give me a makeover.”

“Oh.” Andrew’s expression looked half-sympathetic, half-amused. “Well, that could be worse, I guess.”

“I have to get one, too,” Wyatt pointed out with a sour look.

“At least you get new clothes,” Andrew said to Eric, seemingly ignoring Wyatt entirely. Sulkily, the redhead stuck his hands in his pockets and drifted off to the side to toe the carpet.

“Like I’m really going to stick around for that,” Eric snorted. “We’re probably going to leave in the morning before she can try anything drastic.”

Predictably, Andrew looked deeply disappointed. He frowned and tilted his head. “That’s too bad. Are you, uh. You know. Feeling any better?”

“About what?”

“You know, what you were feeling bad about earlier,” he said as vaguely as possible, glancing sidelong at Wyatt.

“I honestly have no idea what the hell you’re talking about,” Eric replied bluntly.

Frustrated, Andrew scrubbed a hand through his hair, which was significantly shorter than Eric’s, and let out a sigh. “Whatever’s been making you act weird since the wedding.” He preemptively stamped out Eric’s elusive look with a glare and added, “Don’t act like nothing happened, because everyone can tell. What happened?”

“I was just upset about being outed,” he lied. “I didn’t want to get disowned.”

“He’s completely bullshitting you,” Wyatt called out, and Eric made a mental note to smother him with a pillow while he was sleeping. Obliviously, Wyatt continued, “Earlier I got him to admit he has family issues.” Smother and stab. “And it seems like everything’s okay with your parents now, so. It must be something else.” Smother, stab and _drown_.

“Oh, Eric.” Surprisingly, Andrew’s expression melted into something small and sad and fragile, and he was suddenly hugging him again.

“I guess you know what it is, then,” Eric mumbled against his twin’s shoulder.

“I didn’t know it still bothered you so much.”

“How can it not?” he muttered bitterly, wanting to pull away but finding too much comfort in the familiar embrace. “I just. Didn’t think about it for a long time. And now it’s catching up with me again.”

Andrew squeezed his shoulders. “We should visit his grave later.”

“What?” Wyatt was suddenly next to them, eyebrows raised. “Whose grave?”

“None of your business,” Eric hissed, and then immediately felt bad. It kind of _was_ his business now. They were dating and everything, and he supposed that meant he was obligated to share this kind of personal stuff with him. “My brother’s. Danny’s.”

Andrew, on the other hand, was less forgiving about the tactlessness; he glared at Wyatt hard as he rubbed Eric’s back soothingly. “You’re not invited,” he pointed out.

Apparently, he thought it wasn’t Wyatt’s business no matter what.

Wyatt, oddly enough, was okay with that. For a brief moment, he seemed to want to disagree, but then common sense probably took over and he nodded and bit his lip. “Okay,” he agreed softly. “I’ll, um. Stay here.”

“With my parents,” Eric said flatly, a little disbelieving.

“Um. Yes.” He cringed. “Here. With your parents.”

Well, that was punishment enough. He scratched off the mental list to kill off Wyatt in his sleep like Rasputin and nodded approvingly. “Thanks.”

“By the way,” Andrew cut in casually, “Avery doesn’t stay in Milwaukee over the summer.”

Wyatt visibly balked. “What?”

Andrew smirked. “He’s staying here for a while.”

“Wait,” Eric interrupted. “You mean like, in this state? Or in this town?”

“I mean like, he’s parking the car.”

If they were in a cartoon, Wyatt’s jaw would have been on the floor. As it was, his mouth was open pretty wide, and his eyes were bulging behind his bulky glasses. “Are you serious? What the hell! That man never tells me anything.”

“What are you, his dad now?” Eric joked, thankful for the distraction from the previous topic. He couldn’t forget that he had now pretty much promised to visit Danny’s grave with Andrew later, but it was nice to be able to put it on the proverbial backburner without the usual accompaniment of overwhelming guilt.

“Shut up.” Wyatt poked him in the ribs and pouted. Actually pouted. Eric spent a few moments simply sinking in the expression before he decided to make fun of him for it.

But he never got the chance, because Avery beat him to it.

“Dude, why do you look like a five year old? Did Eric stop putting out or something?” Avery asked with all the clumsy rudeness of his brother. Eric wondered briefly if it ran in the family before he threw a nasty scowl in his direction.

“That’s none of your fucking business,” he snapped.

“We rarely even _have_ real sex,” Wyatt replied at the exact same time, which was terribly, terribly awkward, and Eric finally lost hold on all his composure and smacked him upside the back of his stupid red head.

“What the fuck, Wyatt!” he hissed, flushing pink with embarrassment.

Even Avery looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I was definitely just kidding. I don’t need to know about my brother’s sex life.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want to know about yours, either,” Wyatt sniped back. “Pull up your collar, you slut.”

Avery blinked. “What?”

“You have a massive hickey on your neck.” Wyatt pointed to the rather large, Africa-shaped mark on his brother’s skin.

“That is a bruise,” Avery deadpanned.

Unable to resist, Eric leaned forward to inspect the ‘bruise’ in question, ignoring Avery’s indignant grunt, and instantly declared, “Totally a hickey.”

“I don’t even want to know,” Wyatt said before Avery could explain himself. “I don’t care if you picked up hookers or an alien abducted you or Andrew gave it to you. Just. Don’t say anything.”

Andrew blushed while Avery remained mysteriously unruffled.

“Totally a bruise,” the latter repeated.

“What, did you fall on your neck?” Wyatt scoffed, and then immediately held up his hands and waved them heatedly in the air. “Never mind! Never mind, I don’t want to know, I don’t even know why I asked that.”

“Neither do I,” his brother replied gruffly. “Can we stop saying awkward things and go inside now?”

“Yes,” Wyatt said, seemingly glad for the reprieve, and belatedly pulled him into a hug. “Good to see you, by the way. Way to not tell me you were here, you bastard.”

“Way to not tell me you were doing a charity concert in Atlanta,” he threw right back at him, grinning, and the pair continued to banter as they walked back indoors, probably to meet their doom at the hands of the Foster parents. Well, not really doom, but at least extreme embarrassment in Danforth’s case, and some snide comments by Astair. Not really desirable in either case.

Watching them go, Eric sighed and leaned against his twin, smirking a bit when Andrew poked him repeatedly in the side until he finally gave in and said, “Yes?”

“Do you really think it’s a hickey?” Andrew asked.

A shrug. “Couldn’t tell, but I like messing with him.” His thoughts lazily trailed back to several past mental accusations that Andrew and Avery were gaying it up in secret, along with crazy, cracked out hypothesis that their two families had been connected in a past life or something. It seemed far more likely that someone had punched Avery in the throat for being an insensitive asshole than anything involving Andrew.

“You are so evil,” Andrew said, and when Eric looked at him, he was grinning.

He grinned back. “Thank you. Let’s go inside.”

 

* * *

 

The cemetery was nearby, so Andrew and Eric went to visit Danny’s before nightfall. Danny had been quite popular when he was alive, so there was usually some sort of lingering tribute, a week-old bouquet or an aging cross. Eric privately suspected that Astair paid someone to put flowers on the grave at some regular rate of frequency, but he couldn’t prove it.

That day, however, Danny’s grave was sadly bare, a solid marble monument that the Forsters had paid an exorbitant amount for. Danforth Forster II. It was pretentious, but it was beautiful, and it suited him, and Eric was crying within five minutes of standing in front of it, holding Andrew’s hand like they were four years old and crossing the street together. He pulled him over to the nearest grave with a fresh bouquet of roses and stole two, one for each of them, and didn’t feel guilty about the thievery when they laid the flowers on their big brother’s grave.

“I’m sorry I pretended you never existed,” he apologized solemnly, even though Danny wasn’t there to accept it. “That was stupid. I’m stupid. I miss you.”

Andrew squeezed his hand and gave him a watery smile. “I’m pretty sure he forgives you.”

“He can’t forgive me,” he muttered. “He’s dead.” But he did feel a bit better, so he squeezed back and wiped his eyes with his other hand. “I am so happy Wyatt isn’t here right now.”

Frowning, Andrew tugged him closer and asked, “Has he never seen you cry?”

He snorted. “It’s not that. He’d probably just say something really insensitive and leave to wait in the car.”

“I think he wanted to come,” his twin noted.

“Yeah, well.” Eric shrugged. “Maybe next time.”

For some reason, that made Andrew inexplicably happy, and his smile was wide and white as he suddenly threw both arms around Eric’s neck and hugged him.

Eric just gave him a look that plainly said he thought he was fucking nuts. “What the hell was that for?”

Andrew slapped him on the back and grinned. “I’m just proud of you for saying there will be a next time.”

“Probably on his birthday,” he said, privately surprised by himself for planning ahead. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to bring Wyatt. He was sure the redhead could behave himself long enough to visit a _graveyard_ without making an ass of himself. It might be nice to introduce Danny to his boyfriend, too.

Somehow sensing that Eric was thinking about Wyatt (probably some freaky twin thing they would never be able to explain), Andrew gave him a very brotherly look and murmured, “Wyatt seems good for you. I think you’ve grown up a lot in this past year.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, well. I guess. Maybe.”

It was a testament in and of itself that Eric hadn’t gotten absolutely pissed at the idea that he had any more growing up to do.

They stayed and stared at the grave for a while longer, but in the end, it was just a huge piece of white stone, and they were hungry, and there was pizza to be eaten and redheads to be snogged. Which redheads, of course, was still up for debate. Eric made a giant mental note (bigger than his typical mental notes to maim and/or murder Wyatt) to find out what the fuck was going on between them at some point, if anything. Or maybe some stones were better left unturned.

 

* * *

 

Much later that night (technically morning), Eric received this:

 

From: Peter

Message: If I don’t get a free copy of your CD I will kill you :O

Sent: June 06 1:06 am

 

“Wyatt,” he said, nudging the redhead where he was lounging at the foot of the bed. They were in Danny’s old room (which he was desperately trying to ignore), since Andrew and Avery were, predictably, occupying Andrew’s bedroom. Danforth had dragged in the extra twin bed from when Eric had stayed there over Christmas, but Eric was still suspicious as to whether anyone was actually using it.

Probably, since those twin beds were damnably small, and both Andrew and Avery were pretty built.

Why the hell was he even thinking about this?

“Yes?” Wyatt replied.

“When is our CD coming out?” he asked, happy to stop thinking about the potential, erm, _relations_ their brothers may or may not have been having, thumbs poised to type a reply to Peter.

“Um, I dunno, not for a few months.”

He made a face. “Well, can we get like a bootleg or something for Pete?”

“I guess.” Sitting up, Wyatt turned to face Eric, sliding up against him out of a familiar habit that still made Eric’s toes curl sometimes. The blond smiled, turning to face him, and kissed his jaw. He’d been aiming for his mouth and had missed a little, too drowsy at this point to aim properly, but he wasn’t going to admit that.

“Thanks,” he hummed as he typed his reply.

 

To: Peter

Message: send me your address again and ill get you a copy

Sent: June 06 1:08 am

 

He was too tired to bother with proper capitalization or punctuation. Almost instantly his phone buzzed with a reply. It was almost freaky how fast Peter could text. He was like a thirteen-year-old Japanese girl or something.

 

From: Peter

Message: THANKS! :D

Sent: June 06 1:08 am

 

“Man, he is way too excited about that CD,” he muttered to himself, tossing his phone aside onto the dresser, and flopped facedown on top of the covers.

“Peter?” Wyatt clarified. Eric could hear him taking off his glasses and reaching over him to set them on the dresser.

“Mm,” he grunted into the baseball-print comforter. (Even in his teens, Danny had been a big baseball fan. He was just cool enough to get away with immature sheets.) Eric was kind of too tired to get underneath the covers, but he was saved from that particular obstacle when Wyatt lifted him and jerked all the blankets out from underneath him. Eric would have complained if Wyatt hadn’t immediately covered him back up.

“Have you even listened to it yet?” Wyatt asked as he settled down next to him, nose burrowed against Eric’s soft neck (his favorite spot), close and quiet enough to feel his pulse against his cheek.

“No. I’ve heard all the songs like a billion times before. I’ve _played_ them all.”

He felt Wyatt smile against his skin. “I think you should listen to it anyway. I’ll get us a copy when I get one for Peter.”

“Whatever,” he mumbled, too tired to disagree, and didn’t protest as Wyatt stroked the lines of his ribs until he fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

When he woke up, they were already packed. Wyatt had shoved all their crap back into the car with Tetris-like skills that he must have learned from watching Eric play the game all the time, although he hadn’t had as much time for it once he’d stopped being a roadie. Eric merely stood in front of the car, yawning, and rubbed his sleepy eyes with a dull sense of awe.

“Eager to leave?” he drawled with a faint tone of amusement.

“Your dad came into the room and woke me up this morning,” Wyatt said. He looked a little traumatized at the memory. “He wanted to go fishing or something and then made us make breakfast together. He said it was bonding.”

“That is very, very weird,” Eric admitted.

“It was,” Wyatt agreed, nodding. “And then your dog wouldn’t stop sniffing my crotch so I decided to pack the car.”

“Lacy has good taste in men,” he said with a grin, wondering where exactly the family dog had gone off to but not particularly having enough energy to go find her. “You ready to go?”

Wyatt’s hazel eyes widened for a moment in surprise. “Huh? Yeah, I thought it was obvious. But uh, don’t you want to say goodbye to your family and stuff?”

Rolling his eyes, Eric flicked the redhead in the forehead and drawled, “Obviously not to my _mother_ because we are fleeing from her makeovers. I’ll go say goodbye to my dad and Drew, though, and then we can leave. Okay?”

“Okay,” Wyatt agreed, grinning, and caught his hand to kiss his fingertips before the smaller man could leave. “I already said goodbye to Av, so I’m gonna start the car and wait for you.”

“Good deal.” Wyatt’s grin was infectious, and Eric couldn’t help but smile in return as he trotted off to find his father and say goodbye.

For once, he thought he might miss him.

 

* * *

 

Roughly one week later, a package arrived for Eric in the mail. It contained two copies of the new CD, and Eric couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the fact that Wyatt had mailed them instead of just driving them over.

With an affectionate yet put-upon sigh at his boyfriend’s retarded antics, Eric popped open the case, sliding out the insert to look at it. The cover design wasn’t finalized yet, mostly because the only pictures of the band they had didn’t include Eric, and he was rather unquestionably a permanent member at this point. London had some sort of plans to do something artsy that didn’t have the band on it, but Wyatt, being the conceited jackass he was, didn’t want to put out a CD that didn’t have their picture on it or something along those lines.

The inside of the insert was mostly lyrics, song by song, broken up by occasional pictures of the band. It was pretty uninteresting. With a sigh, he tossed the booklet aside and stuck the CD in his CD player, turning up the stereo, and flopped backwards onto his couch to listen to it play.

It was boring, but it was soothing. It sounded better than it did at their concerts because he didn’t have to listen to the thousands of screaming girls or the stupid mic checks he’d had to do when he was just a roadie, which was when he’d done most of his listening. Performing with them had been listening, too, but it was more like participating than anything else, and that had been much, much better. Plus, he’d gotten to see Wyatt all sweaty underneath the bright, burning lights with his red hair disheveled and glasses slightly crooked, eyes shut as he’d sang, and that had been pretty fucking awesome.

The song changed, and Eric tipped his head back on a tasseled throw pillow, looking above his head at his fern. He’d forgotten to water it before he’d left for Atlanta, but it was a good fern, and it had survived. He lightly stroked the fronds and said, “Sorry, buddy. I will buy you some special plant food tomorrow.”

And then he realized he was talking _to his fern_ , and that was entirely too crazy for him to dismiss, and he resolved on the spot to get a pet or something. People weren’t crazy if they talked to pets. Maybe he could kidnap Lacy from his parents. Or Fetch. Fetch was a fucking good dog, and he could probably get London to steal him.

That was a good idea.

Pulling out his phone, he flipped it open and started to send a text message to London when it buzzed in his hand, a message from Wyatt flashing on the screen, and he jumped a little in surprise.

 

From: Wyatt

Message: did you get it yet?

Sent: June 14 3:09 pm

 

He paused, message to London momentarily forgotten, and typed a response as the CD changed to track three.

 

To: Wyatt

Message: yesss. thank you.

Sent: June 14 3:10 pm

 

For a moment, he’d contemplating adding a heart, but he thought that was probably a bit too much. That was way more of a Peter thing. He was debating whether or not to send another text with a smiley or something when his phone vibrated again.

 

From: Wyatt

Message: …did you listen to it?

Sent: June 14 3:11 pm

 

Eric frowned. What was up with the emo ellipses? Sitting up, he shifted, putting his feet on the carpet, and leaned his elbows on his knees as he replied.

 

To: Wyatt

Message: listening to it now, why?

Sent: June 14 3:12 pm

 

He waited impatiently with his phone between his knees until it buzzed again.

 

From: Wyatt

Message: call me when you’ve listened to the whole thing

Sent: June 14 3:13

 

And then, almost instantly:

 

From: Wyatt

Message: and read the last page of the booklet

Sent: June 14 3:13 pm

 

Curiously, Eric pulled himself off the couch and trotted over to where he’d discarded the booklet. He instantly flipped to the last page, track sixteen—

Wait a minute, he only remembered _fifteen_ tracks.

Squinting, he scanned through the lyrics and realized with a slow, burning warmth in his stomach that it was the song he and Wyatt had composed together on the plane to Tokyo. He’d sort of forgotten about it up until then, but now he vaguely recalled throwing himself on Wyatt’s shoulder (God, he had been so _obvious_ ) and demanding to be entertained, and Wyatt had suggested writing a song together, and now it was there, their song, literally _their_ song, on the CD.

He quickly went to the CD player and skipped ahead to the last track, nearly swooning with embarrassing girliness at Wyatt’s voice singing their lyrics. It was so fucking sweet he could have killed himself.

Smiling stupidly to himself, he turned his attention back to the CD booklet, running his thumb along the words printed there, and paused when he noticed a dedication underneath. It was very short and read as such:

 

_To E._

_I love you._

And that was all. There was no name listed as ‘from’ but Eric could easily guess who it was. Unable to keep himself from grinning like a maniac, he grabbed his phone, flipped it open, and hit speed dial number one. Which was Wyatt, of course. (Drew had been bumped down to speed dial number two after that first hand job.)

Wyatt picked up halfway through the second ring.

“I love you, too, you bastard,” Eric said warmly into the receiver without preamble before Wyatt could even say hello.

“Uh,” Wyatt spluttered, obviously not expecting that greeting, and cleared his throat several times before he said, “Yes. Well. I take it you read the dedication.”

“Yep. Will you say it?”

“Umm?” Wyatt’s voice was suspiciously high-pitched.

Eric made a gruff noise and privately flushed a little. “I said, will you say it. I want to hear it. Reading it with no signature’s not the same.”

“Oh, well.” The redhead cleared his throat again. “I love you, Eric.”

A smile spread all the way across Eric’s face, wide enough that it almost made his cheeks hurt, and he bit his lip and nearly _giggled_ and God that was so stupid and girly it kind of hurt. He would have to do something to salvage his masculinity later. Eat some red meat or something.

“Good. Um.” If there were a phone cord, he would have been fidgeting with it. “So, do you want to come over later?”

“Yes,” Wyatt replied, and he sounded breathless and slightly relieved. “That would be good. I’ll pick up dinner or something. See you around six?”

“Yup. I’ll see you then.” He just could not fucking stop smiling, and normally he would have found it annoying, but today he found it comforting.

“Okay. Bye, Eric.”

“Bye,” he said, soft yet giddy, and very nearly giggled to himself as he hit the ‘end call’ button.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! Thank you all for sticking with this story. :) This was written in 2008 and is plagued with out-of-date references and epithets, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway.


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